The Heart of a Lion
by Katie Duggan's Niece
Summary: A Gene Hunt story, set years after the finale of A2A: The guv can't remember why he's in this place, or how he got here. But he sees reminders everywhere of the copper he couldn't save and the woman he had to let go...and has never forgotten, end of. NOW COMPLETE.
1. Ticket to the World

Hi, I'm Katie Duggan's Niece and I am an **A2A** addict.

_Hi, KDN!_

Now that we've gotten that part out of the way, I have the following announcements: I will be borrowing the **Ashes to Ashes** characters from their creators, Ashley Pharaoh and Matthew Graham, for a bit of Post-Series 3 Traumatic Stress Syndrome therapy. Expect bad language (worse than usual for my stories), some original characters, and a guv-centric narrative that touches on the fates of nearly everyone on the team(s), particularly a vitally important character, who shall remain nameless for the moment. Oh, and anyone who hasn't seen series 3 can get up and leave now, because this is Spoiler City.

Now let's have a sustained round of applause for the one and only grainweevil, who took the time to transcribe _24_ episodes of **A2A**, thus making my job easier. Take a bow, Al.

The following multi-chapter story started out life as a one shot with an ambiguous ending based on what I believed would happen to the team in series 3. Its only constants have been the initial premise and its title - which came to me _before_ I saw episode 6 and heard what Gene said to Viv; cue the theme to** The Twilight Zone**. That's right; I've been working on this since the spring and have at last had to divide it into shorter chapters _and_ lose the bittersweet ending.

Right. That's the admin out of the way. Let me know what you think of the story.

* * *

**The Heart of a Lion**

**Chapter 1: Ticket to the World  
**

I woke up that morning with my back hurting like a bastard. Mind you, that might have had something to do with sleeping on actual _stone_.

My first thought was that I had kipped down somewhere in central London, in one of the squares. That would have explained the statues of the lions and all. Only once I'd got a proper look round I saw it bloody well wasn't London, wasn't any place I remembered. There was open space stretching out all around me - stone, pavement, grass - and right in front of me was a fountain, larger than anything you'd see in Trafalgar Square. And that wasn't the Nelson Column off in the distance.

I turned round to look in the other direction and saw a statue of this bloke on horseback, with those four lions surrounding him - must have been a war memorial, or the Yanks' notion of one - and behind that, up the hill, a building with a great white dome, same one I'd seen at the pictures. Only this wasn't the pictures. Wasn't a dream, either.

* * *

How had I got there? Few drinks with Terry and Poirot - that was the last thing I remembered, that and going up the stairs of a pub, or maybe it was a restaurant. Yes, a restaurant. A trattoria, that was it.

But it looked like Terry and Poirot had left me on me tod. _Terry and Poirot_. Never thought that pair of twats would have had the bottle to try anything like that. I'd sort them out, soon as I found them.

Couldn't remember where I might find them, though. I must have well and truly drunk the equivalent of the North Sea in whisky the night before, even if I didn't have an headache and wasn't about to be sick. But I also couldn't have told you why I was in Washington Bloody D.C.

It wasn't secondment to the CIA; that much was certain. Just my luck, too, to be waking up at a sodding war memorial, and not in bed with an American blonde.

* * *

I sat back down on the stone steps to have a fag and think how to get this sorted, then decided to have a look through all my pockets.

Cigarettes, matches, warrant card. Everything in order. Wallet, but with American money inside - a lot, from what I could see. No passport, though, and no flask. But if someone had nicked them, they'd left me my warrant card and wallet, hadn't they?

I looked round again. It was still early morning, looked like, and there was no one about but for a tramp. Miserable bugger hadn't taken anything off me; I was sure of it. Nothing but a pair of carrier bags and a big grey blanket to his name. He just sat there muttering to himself, paying me no mind at all.

* * *

I didn't know if I'd hired a car or booked a room at an hotel. I must have done, but I couldn't remember it, couldn't remember a thing except for going up the stairs of that restaurant. Must have come directly from there to the monument. I'd have to find the trattoria and get my bearings, only I didn't know which direction it was.

There was a pathway leading up to the Capitol, but that was blocked by white barrier with _STOP _in big red letters, so I set off in the other direction - still uphill. It was slow going. Must have been the fags catching up with me.

* * *

On one side of the street were these great stone buildings; on the other, the Capitol and a car park, with a few coppers about. One plod was talking to his mate, standing next to one of the cars.

_Police. _

_United States Capitol._

I didn't stop to have a word but as I passed I couldn't help but think I'd met that that bloke before. Could have sworn I knew the face, though not the uniform -

_Uniform_. I remembered then. He might have been Skip's cousin - looked just like him, bloody well _sounded _like him, from what I could hear, but for the accent and all.

I didn't stare as I passed by, though I looked back the once, just to make sure I wasn't going mad. The second time he didn't seem as much like Viv as I'd thought at first. Just another copper. Just another American copper.

* * *

I got up the hill to find there were signs everywhere, but nothing I recognized.

_House Office Buildings_

_Cannon_

_Longworth_

_Rayburn_

_Ford_

And there were no restaurants about, nothing at all like that, only another bloody barricade at the street corner. Good job I wasn't driving; there wasn't much of anywhere I could have gone, looked like.

Right. Best to continue on past the Capitol. But before I could take another step, I heard a shot, then a second. _Shit._

I looked back towards the dome, then to the other side of the Capitol grounds, but those coppers in the car park hadn't moved a muscle, let alone drawn their guns. I listened for another shot but didn't hear anything. In fact it was dead quiet.

_Two men down. U.S. Capitol. _

Can't say where that thought came from, or those shots. Still can't. Must have been a car backfiring in the distance.

I shook it off and continued on down the street.

* * *

There were more people about now - tourists, joggers. At the edge of the Capitol grounds there was an area marked off with yellow police tape, and I heard this kid asking his dad if there'd been a murder there. Probably had been, I reckon, though it didn't seem likely, what with so many coppers around and all.

As I got to the next corner this skinny bird came running right past me. She was in trainers and a white t-shirt and red shorts, showing more leg than the entire Man City team.

Reminded me I'd had another dream about Alex Drake.

* * *

I reckon there weren't many coppers at Fenchurch East who remembered Alex. Poirot did, and of course Terry, and DC Slate had once actually asked me about DI Drake, but I told him to shut it, and he kept quiet after that.

Only Drakey herself wouldn't keep quiet. Trust her to find a way.

A few years back that Italian bloke across the street had come to me to get the flat sorted, and I had Terry take a couple of WPCs over to clear everything away. Even had a look round meself but couldn't bear it for more than a few minutes.

Most of Alex's gear went to the charity shop, but there were a few things Terry thought I'd want to send her, so I let him bring the boxes into my office, where they stayed. End of.

Not the tapes, though. I tried listening to a couple, couldn't do the others. Her voice. Her music. I'd burnt the lot, in a barrel outside Fenchurch East. Didn't want anyone in CID to find them in my office.

Afterwards I couldn't forget that voice, or Bolly herself. Plum in her gob. Head full of brains, common sense of a grain weevil. Gave me an headache, gave me the horn, and sometimes I couldn't tell one from the other.

Got _into_ my head too, Drakey did. I saw her everywhere - on the streets, at the docks, in my sleep. Especially in my sleep. Sometimes I'd dream I was at my desk and she'd come in, in a skirt so short I could almost see what she'd had for breakfast. Or I'd walk into the station and there was Bolls at the desk, wearing a uniform - a bloody _sergeant's_ uniform.

But most of the time I dreamed I was standing outside the Railway Arms in the dark, talking to Alex, and she'd be crying, and asking me to come inside the pub with her, just the once.

I'd always wake up before I could tell her I would.

* * *

Sun was so bright it hurt my eyes, so I thought it was a bit strange when that geezer turned up wearing a raincoat. Wouldn't have noticed him but for the raincoat. He looked familiar, too, like that copper, only I couldn't put a name to him either. Just another stranger, probably. Best to keep well clear of him.

* * *

I got to the next street corner, and another barricade, with _STOP_ in big red letters._ Shit._ Like a bloody armed camp, it was.

But I could see a church some distance away, down yet another street, and there were sure to be shops in that direction, and restaurants too, maybe the trattoria where I'd left Terry and Poirot. I could have murdered a bacon butty at that point; there'd bloody well _better_ be a restaurant nearby.

I looked to my right, then stepped off the curb, and just then I heard something - not gunshots this time.

"_No, no, no, no!_"

* * *

_To be continued..._

_

* * *

_

A/N: The characters are fictional. The places are real.


	2. Coppers Like Us

Disclaimer: I'm just borrowing the character of Gene Hunt, and the odd image or bit of dialogue from **LOM** and **A2A**, from Ashley Pharaoh and Matthew Graham, Kudos, and Monastic. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

**The Heart of a Lion**

**Chapter 2: Coppers Like Us**

**

* * *

**

Someone caught me by my jacket and pulled me backwards just as a big bastard of a car sped past - nothing but a black blur, it was. Happened so fast, I just turned round and took hold of whoever had grabbed me.

But it wasn't that geezer in the raincoat, it was a man half a head shorter than I was. Bloke with the nose of a boxer who'd lost a few fights. Didn't have a lot of hair on his head, and what was left had been cropped close.

And he'd grabbed _me_ by the lapels, and stuck his face up to mine, nose to nose.

"What the hell are you trying to do, get yourself killed?"

_"What?" _I tightened my grip on his shirt.

But he wasn't letting go either. "SUV almost took you out," he said, staring me hard in the face. "Boom, instant death." He finally released my jacket, shook me off and all, and as he took a step backwards I noticed the blonde standing directly behind him. About as tall as he was. His missus, probably.

"Marty," said the woman, putting her hand on his shoulder. "It's okay."

"Yeah, _right._ Let's spend the day giving statements and watching 'em scrape him off the street. Just what I had in mind."

"Would you stop? Nothing happened." She turned to me. "You all right?" Sounded like that blonde in **Raging Bull**.

"Yeah," I said, nodding. "No worries." Felt out of breath, though, and my heart was racing. "Reckon I owe you," I said to the man.

"Forget about it," he said, shrugging. "You sure you're okay?"

"Never better."

"Yeah, if you don't count almost getting run over," he said, looking at me suspiciously. Probably thought I'd been trying to top meself, when all I'd done was look the wrong way. Bloody American traffic laws.

"Not going to let that happen, mate. The paperwork on suicides is a right bastard."

He gave me another look, then grinned. "Tell me about it." Must have caught my accent then too, because the next thing he said was, "From across the pond, huh? What are you doing in D.C.?"

"A few of us from the Met came over."

"The Met?" he said, frowning. "You sure as hell don't look like an opera singer."

"I'm a police officer."

"A _cop_?"

"Strewth." I pulled out my warrant card to show him and the wife.

The man squinted at it. "_Metropolitan. DCI Gene Hunt._ Metropolitan what?"

"London. East End."

"London?" The missus sounded impressed.

Her old man didn't say anything, though, just had another look at my warrant card. "No shit. A brother officer," he said at last, and stuck out his hand for me to shake. "I'm with the NYPD, or I was. Gave 'em 35 years of my life."

He had a bloody strong grip.

* * *

Martin Byrne was his name. New York copper. In fact he and the missus had lived in New York all their lives and hadn't left when he'd been pensioned off a few years back. "Who needs Florida, huh?" he said to me.

They'd come down to D.C. often enough while he was with the force, and still did, now that their son had gone to work for the DOJ. Whatever that was.

"So what is it this trip?" Byrne was asking me now. "The Bureau? State? Homeland Security?"

_Shit._ I had no answer to that, couldn't remember a thing.

"Although you look like you're on your way to testify on the Hill," he added. "Only guy in a suit I've seen all morning. But who holds hearings on a Sunday, eh?" he said. "Bet you could give those guys on Judiciary an earful."

"What about?"

"How you do things in London."

"Clearing the streets of Cockney scum, you mean?"

He chuckled. "Hear that?" he said to his missus, then turned back to me. "You been walking round the Hill?" he said, jerking his head towards the Capitol.

"Yeah."

"What'd you think?"

"Bloody armed camp, isn't it?"

"Yeah. Not like the old days. You got Jersey barriers sprouting up like mushrooms. Have to run every little old lady through a metal detector like she's the freaking Underwear Bomber or Unabomber or something."

"Unabomber?"

"You remember him?" he said. "That guy they found holed up out West. Worse than the Mad Bomber. Jeez, I'm dating myself; I haven't thought about the Mad Bomber in years. That was my father's generation. Profiling, '50s style. Calling in the psychiatrists."

"Psychologists."

"Nah, they called in the psychiatrists for that one. Nailed him, too.

"But you know the score. About the time I joined the force you guys were in the thick of it with the IRA."

"And not just them," I said, thinking back.

"No, not just them," said the copper. Suddenly looked a lot older than he'd seemed at first. "It's a whole new ballgame now. Whole new ballgame."

* * *

"...and a lot of 'em were just kids, didn't know their ass from their elbow, thought New York was made of gold. You know - the old story." Byrne shrugged.

"Too right," I said to him. "Some lass comes down to London, thinks she's going to be an actress, finds 'erself standing in front of a bunch of pervs, getting 'er kit off." I turned my head and saw the copper's missus looking straight at me. Bloody hell, I'd almost forgotten she was there.

Her old man and I had been standing on that street corner for God knew how long, talking about policing in New York and D.C. and London and Manchester. Byrne had started out a beat cop for the NYPD, wound up in the organized crime unit, done everything in between, sounded like. He'd been to a lot of training seminars too, in D.C. and other places. Didn't seem a bad idea to keep him talking, only now and then he'd ask me something I couldn't answer. Didn't matter, though; he always got to talking about something else.

"So where you headed now?"

"Looking for a restaurant." That was true enough, but I didn't know which one. "Thought I'd get meself a fry-up."

"A fry-up?"

"Eggs. Bacon."

"You want company?" said Byrne. "We could have breakfast together. Schmooze."

"Yeah. Fine."

"I know just the place, too."

* * *

Turned out the restaurant was close by the Capitol and just past the train station, and while we were walking past that I saw another monument with statues of lions, white stone this time. Made me remember something else.

_A wounded lion - no, a wounded copper, white t-shirt soaked with his blood -  
_

"You want to check it out?"

"What?" I'd been thinking about that day at Fenchurch. Almost forgot anyone was even with me.

"Union Station," Byrne said, nodding towards the building. "It's really beautiful inside."

I shook my head, looked at those lions again. Just statues. Didn't know why they'd made me remember what had happened and all.

"Nah, let's go."

* * *

Bloody hell, it was a pub. "Just the place" turned out to be a _pub_.

Dark wood, lots of windows. Newly painted sign up above, entrance to the right. A dark-haired bird, with clothes to match, was going inside. Never even saw her face but I stood there and watched as she pulled the door open.

_Turn around, Bollykecks. For God's sake, turn around. Don't you want to fight me, don't you -  
_

"You okay?"

"What?" I looked at Marty Byrne, then back at the door of the pub. The woman had already gone inside, looked like. "Yeah."

"I know it's Irish," he said, shrugging. "But I'm not trying to jerk your chain or anything. I just love this place.

"Besides, you got that agreement now."

"Agreement?"

"With Northern Ireland. What was that thing called?" he said to the wife. "Ash Wednesday or something."

The missus smiled, rolled her eyes at me. "My husband, the world affairs expert."

"Huh. At least I follow the news," said Byrne.

"Yeah, and it all goes in one ear and out the other."

"Hey, blame it on Irish Alzheimer's, babe."

"Irish Alzheimer's?" I asked._  
_

"You know - I forget everything but the grudges," said the copper, winking at me. "Come on, let's eat!"

The missus sighed and took his arm. "I hope your arteries are up to this, Marty."

"Don't start. Besides, Wiseman's got me on the statins."

We got ourselves a table outside, and a girl came over and asked us what we wanted to drink. Could have done with a scotch just then but I ordered coffee, like the copper and his missus. And it turned out I could get a proper fry-up, too - bacon, eggs, tomatoes, the lot.

After we'd got settled and the girl had taken our orders, I went in search of the gents'. I'd slept rough, wanted to get meself sorted, but when I had a look in the mirror I didn't see much in the way of damage. The suit and tie would do. I needed a shave, of course, and looked like a pasty Northerner to the bargain, despite being in the sun and all. Still, not half bad. I splashed some water on my face and went back to the Byrnes.

* * *

"...and then this nurse comes running in and says to me and Sammy Boy, 'I'll call the bloody police!'"

"'I'll call the police,' she says." Marty chuckled. "Boy, I'll bet she did, on you and Sam both.

"But that guy Rocky lived to fight another day?"

"Ravi. Yeah, did all right for 'imself, even after what they did to 'is brother."

"'Not a lucky family,'" Marty said. "Sheesh, you're not kidding."

"They made a few enemies and all."

"Sometimes you got to," said Marty, shrugging again. "Do anything worthwhile in this life, you're going to make enemies."

"Back in a sec." The missus got up from the table and left us to it - in fact she had done almost since we'd sat down. For a bird she didn't say much, not that I was complaining.

We'd been sitting there for a bit, telling coppers' stories while the girl came by every so often to fill our coffee mugs. I felt better for getting some eggs and bacon down me, and having a few fags, though the missus had pulled a face when I'd gone to light the first one.

"Good thing we didn't sit inside" was all Marty had said, but when I offered him a ciggy he wouldn't take it, not in front of the wife.

Any road, he hadn't needed cigarettes or coffee to get him to talk about the NYPD, or to ask me more about London, even Manchester. First time in years I'd talked about it all, but it wasn't as though anyone at Fenchurch East had wanted to know.

"Kicking asses and saving 'em - that's what it all comes down to," Marty was saying now. "I know that's not very PC these days," he added, grinning. "But it's the truth."

"PC?"

"Politically correct. You're looking at a dinosaur, my friend, a real dinosaur." He chuckled again. "Not exactly flavor of the month.

"But I'd have made it till mandatory retirement," he said. "Almost did. I always said they'd have to take me away on a gurney, maybe even in a body bag. Used to freak Barb out. But my ticker acted up, and that was that.

"Besides, I'd already put Barb through a lot of shit. '_Too long a sacrifice can make a stone of the heart_.' You ever hear that, Gene?"

"No."

"It's from Yeats."

Yeats. Took me a moment to remember when I'd last heard someone say that name.

_ Bolly again. She was in a white dress, sitting across the table from me in another restaurant, just after -  
_

"Anyway, they don't need another old guy like me," Marty was saying. "Still, I'd do it again tomorrow if they asked me. Hell, I'd do it _today_. Even with all the shit that happened. I'd do it in a heartbeat.

"Got to say I envy you, man."

I snorted. "Why?"

"You're out there where the action is. Making a difference."

"Going to go where I'm needed, mate, up until the last second. Up until the last bloody second." Just then I felt someone slip past my chair - the missus. Hadn't noticed she was back and all.

"You all right, babe?" asked Marty as she sat down next to him and opposite me.

"Fine."

"Thirty-five years I've spent waiting one place or another for this one," Marty said, nodding at the wife. "The driveway. Rest stops along the Jersey Turnpike.

"What?" he said as his missus gave him a look. "It's the truth. You'll keep 'em waiting at your own funeral."

"Marty, stop it," she said in a sharp voice. Then she turned to look at me and all. "Are you married, Gene?"

"Separated." Didn't know I was going to say it. Didn't feel like a lie either. Any road, I hadn't said separated from what, had I?_  
_

"I'm sorry," the missus said.

"She's a copper too. _Was_ a copper."

"'Was'?" Marty said. "They force her into early retirement?"

_..always said they'd have to take me away on a gurney, maybe even in a body bag._

"Something like that."

"Hear that?" he said to the wife. "Must be a lot of that going around."

"Marty," she said, "don't start." Then she went on talking, as birds do when there's nothing more to say. "Do you have any children?"

"She had a daughter." I remembered, just like that. Then I saw the look on the missus's face and added, "_Has_ a daughter. Back home. At school." Only I had no bloody idea where.

"We have a daughter too," said the missus. Still looked a bit sad, though she gave me a smile. "She's out of college now, and so are our boys."

"The oldest went to law school," said Marty. "Mr. Big Shot. No cops, though," he said. "Not this time out. Was your father with the force, Gene?"

_My_ old man? Not bloody likely. "Erm, no. Was yours?"

"Oh, yeah. NYPD. Just like his father before him. Wait a minute, you got to see this." He pulled out some sort of radio, pushed the buttons, then handed it across the table to me. The _radio_ showed a picture, a black-and-white photo of a young plod wearing one of those hats American coppers wear, and a long coat with brass buttons down either side.

"I got my son to upload that. The original's at home, in one of the albums."

"That your dad?"

"Yeah, back in the day," said Marty. "A few years after the war.

"He died kind of young. Heart attack. Temper finally caught up with him, I guess.

"Church was packed for his funeral, though. And the wake. All his buddies. One of 'em came up and told me my father would have gone through hell for any of them."

"A copper's copper." I handed back the radio.

"Yeah. People give you a lot of BS when somebody dies, but that guy wasn't lying. My father had been a waist gunner during the war - stationed on your turf, in fact. Damn near froze his ass off flying missions over Europe. He _knew_ from hell."

"You ever been to the States before now?" the missus asked me while Marty was putting away the radio.

"No." Hadn't been much of anywhere.

"Well, I've always wanted to go to London, ever since I was a kid," she said, giving me another smile. "Have you lived there all your life?"

Didn't know a thing about accents, this bird. "No, I'm from Manchester."

"Manchester?"

"Up north. Only came down to London about eight or nine years back." Back when we'd been evicted from Paradise and all.

"We've never been to England, either of us." She turned to her old man. "We ought to go, Marty, now that we've finally got time. We could see everything for ourselves, go to the theater -"

"We got theater in New York, babe. Remember how you bugged me to take you to see that play with the Harry Potter guy, what's his name -"

"Alan Rickman. God, I love his voice."

"You better. I went through hell to get tickets for that one."

"He was good in that show. We had a good time that night, Marty."

"Yeah, I guess. I'll tell you what I liked - **Les Miz**. You ever seen that one, Gene?"

"No."

"Great show. Gets me every time. And this one always turns on the waterworks," he said, nodding at his missus. He started to sing. _"Oh, my friends, my friends, don't ask me what your sacrifice was for_." His voice was a bit wobbly, but not bad. Good copper's voice.

"You know 'Danny Boy'?" I asked him.

"Do I know 'Danny Boy.'" He sighed. "Yeah, but I can't sing that one anymore. Not since - not for a few years." I saw the wife put her hand on his shoulder, like before.

"Haven't heard it in years meself," I told him. "Mate of mine used to sing it at our local."

"We got a bar back home that has live music too," said Marty. "Some nights Barb and I go over, meet up with some of the guys, raise the roof singing. I could sit there for hours."

"And he does, sometimes," said the missus, smiling at me again.

"All the old songs. What's that one Bill taught us? _ God grant you glory, brave Father Murphy, and open heaven to all your men._" Marty grinned. "Just a bunch of overly sentimental cops singing rebel songs. But hey, it keeps us out of trouble."

* * *

At last the girl came and brought us the bill, but Marty pulled out his card before I even had time to get to my wallet. "Forget about it, Gene. I got this one."

"Ta. Thanks, mate."

"So where you headed now? You got to go back to your hotel?"

"Nah, thought I'd get me passport sorted."

"Passport? What happened?"

"Dropped it, didn't I. Thought it might be down there by the Capitol. Someone must 'ave nicked it."

"You want to go to the British embassy?" said the missus.

Embassy. Might be a chance to sort things out. Might even find out what had happened to Terry and Poirot.

"Yeah. Yeah, I do."

* * *

Thought Marty was going to talk the ear off the Irish girl at the desk of the hotel next door, but she didn't seem to mind, and it paid off and all - got me everything I needed: directions and a map and a passport form. At first I'd thought that girl was only taking the piss - said something about going on a_ map quest_, like she was looking for buried treasure - but a few minutes with that computer of hers and she'd sorted everything.

"There are taxis just outside the door," she said, handing me the stack of papers. "If you need one."

"Thanks, petal," I said. Nice girl, even if she was Irish.

It was bloody awkward, though, once the copper and his missus and I got outside. Didn't know what to say, which meant we stood and talked a bit more. After a while Marty said, "Well, I know you've got places to be, things to do, but you want to make a side trip first?"

"Yeah. Yeah, why not?"

"There's something you got to see."

* * *

_To be continued..._

_

* * *

_

A/N: Lyric from "Empty Chairs at Empty Tables" by Herbert Kretzmer.

Lyric from "Boolavogue" by Patrick Joseph McCall.

The Yeats quotation is of course from "Easter 1916."_  
_

The Byrnes are fictional, but the Mad Bomber and his ilk are not, and every last place depicted - Capitol Hill, the monument with the lions at Union Station, and the Irish pub - really exists.


	3. Bold as a Lion

Disclaimer: I don't own Gene Hunt or any element of **Ashes to Ashes** and **Life on Mars**. All original characters are the product of my own warped brain.

I also don't own the scripts to **LOM** and **A2A**, liberally quoted below. As before, warmest thanks to the peerless grainweevil, who transcribed three seasons of **A2A**.

After posting the first two sections of this eight-part story and reading the responses, I decided Chapter 3 needed major revisions. Straight from the heart, here it is, awaiting your reviews and comments. And given the interval between postings, I will provide...

**A summary of previous events**: Some years after Gene Hunt said goodbye to Alex Drake and his "best deputies," he wakes up, alone, in what is evidently Washington, D.C., circa September 2010, and remembers nothing but that the last people he saw were Terry and Poirot from Fenchurch East. A chance encounter on Capitol Hill introduces him to two fellow visitors to the city: a retired New York detective and his long-suffering wife, who take Gene on a side trip.

* * *

**The Heart of a Lion**

**Chapter 3: Bold as a Lion**

_Fidelis ad mortem (Faithful unto death). - motto of the New York Police Department  
_

* * *

Didn't expect the trees, not in this part of the city, with the stone and concrete and all. But there were trees, rows of them, enough to give a bit of shade on the paths between the low stone walls that ran in a curve on either side of the memorial.

First thing you saw when you came in from the street was what Marty called a reflecting pool, and to the right of that, where the trees began, there was a statue of a lioness, and across from her a pair of cubs. Looked like they were sleeping in the sun. They might have done, if they'd been real. It was quiet enough, not many people about.

"Man, you ought to see this place at night," Marty said. "During a vigil. That entire plaza fills up." He waved his arm towards the center of the memorial. "Rows and rows of people - cops, families. Everybody holding candles."

"With all the lights flickering, it's like being among the stars," the missus told me. "Like they've come down to Earth."

I didn't think Marty had even heard her at first, for all that she was right next to him, holding on to his arm, in fact. He was just standing there, staring out across the grounds of the memorial.

"Yeah, the stars," he said finally. "Just like the stars."

* * *

We walked over to that lioness and read what was written in the stone below her.

**_IN VALOR _**

**_THERE IS HOPE_**

And then I saw that the wall just beyond was carved with the names of coppers - one after the other, more than I could count.

"Everybody winds up here," said Marty. "Sheriffs, beat cops, Secret Service. Just as long as you die in the line of duty."

Wouldn't be forgotten, then, any of these police officers, any of these brothers.

We walked on between the rows of trees, along the wall, reading the names, all sorts: _Chin. Connor. Floyd. Frazier. Marchesi. McCloskey. Rappaport. Rickman. Valdez. Zimmerman._

About halfway down someone had set a wreath, and we stopped while Marty leaned over to read the card. From where I stood I could see it was a tribute to an officer in Pennsylvania - no one I'd ever meet, no one the Byrnes knew, I reckon, but we all stood there and had a look at the bloke's name before going any further.

As we got to the end of the wall and came out from between those rows of trees I saw another huge statue of a lion, another verse carved into the stone.

**_THE WICKED FLEE_**

**_WHEN NO MAN PURSUETH_**

**_BUT THE RIGHTEOUS _**

**_ARE BOLD AS A LION_**

The sun was stronger and brighter than I was used to, and I closed my eyes for a moment, leaned a hand against the lion's mane and thought back. I thought back years. HMP Fenchurch, 1983. Coppers in riot gear. Hell raining down all around them as they ran forward.

_Go, go, go, go! Move!_

And Viv calling out to me as I passed him._  
_

_Guv! Guv! You need to listen!_

Only I hadn't listened, hadn't done what I'd needed to do, sworn I'd do. I'd left a man behind, let one of my own down, and it had all ended on the floor of that bloody prison, with that bastard leaning over Skip -

"You all right?"

I opened my eyes and saw Marty's wife standing next to me. I'd no idea how long she'd been there or, come to it, how long I'd stood with my hand resting on that lion's head.

"Yeah. Yeah, fine," I told her. The sun was still bright but a bit of a breeze came up just then, made things a bit cooler.

Marty, who'd gone on ahead, came back over to where we were. "Come on," he said to me. "I want to show you something."

He led me over to a stand where they kept a book listing all the coppers: men, and a few women, from places I'd only heard of - California, Florida, Kansas, Texas. Lot of blokes from New York, looked like.

Names, ranks, cities. Who they were and where they'd died. And when_ - _1989_,_ 1996, 2001. Thought I was going mad when I saw those dates and almost asked Marty what the numbers meant. Found meself hoping they might be some kind of code. Only I knew they wouldn't be if I asked him.

_All right. Surprise me. What year is it supposed to be?_

Hadn't been code for Sam, had it?

_I'm from the future_. _I was shot, and I woke up here, with you..._

Or for Alex.

"You can look up a cop's name, find out where he is on the wall," Marty was saying. "Though I don't need to check anymore. I know all the spots by heart."

"Lot of your mates?"

"A couple. And the son of a buddy of mine," said Marty, staring hard at the other side of the memorial. "Bunch of other guys from the NYPD. And the Port Authority," he added.

"You coming?" he said to his missus, who had got to looking through that book.

"You go on. I'll be with you in a sec."

"Jeez, she ought to know it by now," he muttered, but we went on and left her to it.

The other side of the memorial was the same as the one we'd walked along and had another giant figure of a lion, with more words carved in the stone wall beneath him.

**_IT IS NOT HOW _**

**_THESE OFFICERS DIED_**

**_THAT MADE THEM HEROES_**

**_IT IS HOW THEY LIVED_**

And beyond that the names, thousands of names.

"You ever lose one of yours, Gene?" asked Marty as we walked along the wall.

"Yeah. More than one. Best mates - best coppers - I ever knew." _Heroes._

"Always are," he said, shrugging.

Too right. Still, didn't make it easier.

"And it's just as hard every time," he added. "Every damn time."

"Yeah. Yeah, it is."

* * *

"What the hell is she doing?" Marty said, looking back over his shoulder for his missus. She was still well on other side of the memorial, though she'd left the stand with that book and had gone beneath the trees, and among all the coppers' names, at the wall. The first wall.

But Marty and I had already got partway down the second one, where fat gray squirrels were climbing up onto the stone to watch us as we passed. I scowled back at the buggers but they wouldn't shift themselves, just kept staring as we went by.

* * *

"There he is. There's Brian."

Marty went over to the memorial wall and crouched down to run a hand over some letters carved into the stone. One of those New York coppers, a young bloke. His mate's son.

I just watched him - couldn't think of anything to say - and after a moment Marty got to his feet again. "About ready for the scrap heap here," he said, grunting as he stood up. Then I noticed he was looking past me. "All right, babe?"

I turned round and saw his missus coming towards us.

"Yeah, fine." She wasn't, though; even I could see it. I reckon her old man knew it too but wasn't going to say anything, not with me there.

"Just showing Gene," he said, nodding at the wall. "Brian."

"He was always such a nice boy," said the missus. "Vince would've been so proud of him."

"Yeah," said Marty. "The thing about Brian was, he believed.

"When I think of the complete _shits_ who've walked away, who've disgraced the uniform, the badge -"

"Marty, please," said his wife. "Not here."

"We put our lives on the line, babe," he said. "We're supposed to have each other's back." His face had gone a deep red. "They're dead to me now, _dead_.

"Man, if I had it do to all over again, I got a long list of people I'd bring down."

I remembered Fenchurch East, and Chris Skelton, who'd turned traitor for a ring, a poxy _engagement_ ring. Thought of Charlie Mackintosh too, with his house full of paintings and that bird he was poking. Money, sex, or bloody women, and sometimes it's all three.

"Yeah," the missus said. "Well, you don't."

"Don't what?" asked Marty.

"Have it to do all over again."

Then there was that Irish bloke who'd come after Bolly. Bastard wasn't so smug at the end, was he, just scared shitless, sorry for what he'd done.

And there was Viv, dying on the floor of HMP Fenchurch. And there had been -

"There are some things you can't forgive," Marty was saying. "_Never_."

"Isn't always that simple," I said.

"What isn't?" Marty asked. He and the missus were both staring at me, now that I'd stopped them having a go at each other.

I took my time answering him. Needed to sit down first, across from that wall, and rest my elbows on my knees. Could have done with a drink just then, _and_ a fag, but I left the cigarettes in my pocket, kept my hands clasped together in front of me.

"Back in Manchester, years ago now, I 'ad a boss, Harry Woolf," I said. "Everything I thought a copper should be, Harry was. Got results, _and_ respect. More commendations than I'd ever dreamt of."

"Got 'imself a nice bit of cash, too, Harry did," I added. "From a series of robberies." I couldn't look at either of the Byrnes.

"It was Sam told me. Didn't want to believe 'im. Couldn't be Harry. Not Harry."

"Only Sam wasn't lying," said Marty.

"No. No, 'e wouldn't," I said, keeping my eyes on the stone beneath our feet. "Didn't tell me about the cancer, though."

"Cancer?" This from the missus.

"Harry 'ad a year, at most. And 'e'd been disgraced, lost his pension. But 'e'd made me." I looked up at the two of them. "Couldn't let 'im die alone, could I? Could I?"

"No," said the missus. "You couldn't."

"You stuck by him till the end?" asked Marty.

"Yeah. And I forgave him and all."

No one said anything to that, and I went on. "Can't lose sight of who 'e was - who we _are_. Coppers. Remember when you first put on the uniform?" I said to Marty. "Remember that?"

_Spick and span...very proud._

"Yeah, I remember," he snorted. "Thought I knew it all. Didn't have a clue, not a freaking clue."

"Marty, for God's sake -"

"What? _What_?"

"Forget about it," muttered the wife. She turned to me. "Look, I'm sorry. I got to excuse myself here."

"Oh, jeez," said Marty. "Don't tell me it's starting again."

"Yeah," she said to him. "Yeah, it is."

"Well, wait a minute and we'll -"

"No, I got it," she said. "There's a drugstore around here somewhere. You guys hang out for a while." And she started down the path to the street before either of us could get another word in.

"Headache," Marty whispered, like there was someone around to overhear us. "She'll be all right. Just don't get in her face till she's had a chance to wash down a few pills," he added. "Well, you want to keep going?"

"Yeah." We walked along a bit till he found another place on the wall he wanted me to see: more coppers from New York, more blokes who'd put their lives on the line. Marty stood there, read a few of the names off.

"Man, it's like it was yesterday," he said, after he'd got to the last one. "Might as well be.

"I got to tell you, you touch New York, you touch my heart," he added, pounding a fist against his chest.

"Never been to New York meself."

"No? Well, my friend, it's loud, it's crowded, but it's home."

_Home_. I knew what he meant. The noise. The mess. Folk who needed someone to look after them.

"Hey, did you hear that?" Marty said suddenly, staring out across the plaza.

"'ear what?"

"Pipes. Bagpipes."

"No." It was quiet all round us, no one about but those bastard squirrels.

"Huh. Could've sworn somebody was playing the pipes - down in the subway station, maybe. Well, let's take a load off here," he said, and we sat down to wait for the missus.

"Man, you could count on Jimmy for anything, no questions asked," said Marty, nodding towards one of the names on the wall across from us. "Great guy, just a great guy.

"And Brian - Brian was going to clean up the city, one borough at a time. Never got the chance."

I closed my eyes, rubbed my forehead. Bit of an headache was coming on. Like the missus's, I reckoned.

"Yeah, that was a bad one," Byrne was saying. "I'd come down here for a conference. It was a big deal. Cops from all over, your side of the pond too - London, Belfast. Didn't matter where, though; we'd all dealt with a public who was on edge, or hated our guts, sometimes both.

"So I'm doing a Q&A and this girl starts asking me about special commissions, about damn near every brouhaha we'd had in 30 years. Knows her stuff, too. Real pain in the ass. And she had one of those accents, plummy or whatever the hell they call it. Like she'd waltzed in from the BBC.

"So afterwards she comes over and starts talking to me _again_. More questions about what it's like in the NYPD. I tell her she should've become a lawyer if she wanted to cross examine me. Almost shut her up," he said. "Anyway, turns out she's a real nice girl. Smart as a whip, too. Ready to go out and set the world on fire, like the Jesuits used to tell us.

"We get to talking about profiling - she thought it was cool my father had worked on the Mad Bomber case, she'd read up on that one - and somebody pages me. I can't even remember now who it was.

"They'd found Brian_._" He was clenching and unclenching his fists, like he didn't know what to do with them. "And I'm standing there like a dumbass, and all I can think is I got to get back to New York." He leaned forward, clasping his hands in front of him. "For his funeral. _His_. Should've been mine.

"And that English girl -"

"What about 'er?"

"She says she's sorry," he said. "In that accent of hers. Won't just walk away. Tells me she's sorry.

"One of the guys came over after that, I think. I don't know. Can't remember."

The two of us sat there a moment, watching those bloody squirrels climbing up and down the walls. Then I heard Marty start singing under his breath.

_"The summer's gone_

_"And all the roses falling._

"_'Tis you, 'tis you_

"_Must go and I must bide."_

I knew the tune, too; Ray Carling used to do that one down the pub.

"Who the hell did he think he was, Rambo?" said Byrne in a low voice. "Son of a bitch."

I didn't ask who he meant. "'e put in for it," I said. "'e was a copper."

"_He was a kid_. A skinny kid from the Bronx. Didn't even get to have a life.

"I told him I'd watch out for him. Sure fucked _that_ up," he added, wiping his nose on the back of his hand.

"Wasn't your fault," I said, but he just shook his head.

"Said I'd watch out for him."

_When it came to it, it was my turn to look after him..._

"I knew this bloke, back in London," I told him. "Viv. Viv James."

"_Viv_?" Marty turned and looked at me. "What the hell kind of a name is Viv?"

Didn't bother answering that. "'e was our desk sergeant, our skipper. One of the finest. And a pal of mine."

"Viv. Huh."

"Few years back there was a prison riot. Skip went in with one of our units, didn't come out again. Found out this bloke named Sachs was 'olding 'im. Right cruel bastard, Sachs. Cop killer."

"Shit," I heard Marty say under his breath. I reckoned I knew what he was thinking. I'd have to tell him the rest, or most of it.

"I wasn't going to leave a man behind, not on my watch. Promised we were going to get Viv out of there."

"What happened?"

"We were on our way in, and I 'ad Viv on the radio. 'e was wounded, in pain, but I kept 'im talking all the while."

"Did you find him?" asked Marty.

_Come on, Skip. Stay with me._

"Yeah," I said. "Just not in time."

Marty turned to look at me again. Thought for a moment he was going to come over all Dorothy, but he just said quietly, "God rest his soul."

"Should've never let 'im go in," I went on. "Should've known something was wrong."

"Listen to you," said Marty. "'Should've known.' Who do you think you are, God? That's above your pay grade, pal."

"No, I mean 'e'd tried to talk to me, Viv 'ad, before 'e went. I wouldn't listen. Told 'im there was _no time -"  
_

"Hey, either you got a light?"

I looked up and saw a man standing between us and the wall. I hadn't heard him coming, hadn't even noticed there was anyone else walking through the grounds of the memorial.

"Nah," said Marty.

"'ang about; I do," I said, pulling out my matches and giving them to the bloke. While he was lighting up I noticed he had a tattoo on the back of his hand. Flames. Red flames.

"Thanks," he said, and tossed the pack back at me.

I decided I could do with a smoke meself, and offered a cigarette to Marty. And this time he took it.

"The wife'll kill me," he said. "But what the hell."

The stranger took a pull at his own cigarette, blew out a lot of smoke, smiled. "Keep this up," he said, showing Marty the fag. "You'll do it yourself.

"Well, see you later."

He was gone before I'd put out the match I was using to light my ciggy. Good thing, too. I hadn't liked his smile, or that tattoo.

* * *

"Okay, Barb, get your ass back here," said Marty under his breath. He got up, started pacing about. Having a smoke hadn't cheered him up _or_ calmed him down; in fact he was acting strange, very bloody strange indeed.

"You hear that?" he said to me at one point.

"What?"

"Someone playing the pipes."

Not this again. "No." I watched as he went back and forth, and listened as he began singing to himself, same tune as before.

_"And if you come when all the flowers are dying  
_

_"And I am - and I am -"_

He broke it off, like he'd forgotten the words. Couldn't say I remembered the rest of it meself. Seemed to bother him, though, and he stood there for a minute, looking towards the street where his missus had gone. Then he set off the same way.

"Mate?"

He didn't answer, didn't even look round, just kept walking till he got to one of those books listing the names of the coppers. I saw him turning the pages, quickly, till he'd found the one he was looking for. When I got over there he was staring at the book, not saying a word.

Wasn't expecting him to turn round and come at me, almost knocking me to the ground.

"Okay, I want to know what the fuck is going on here," he said, grabbing my jacket with both hands, like before, this time so tightly I could hardly breathe. "And who you are. Who you _really_ are.

"Tell me. Tell me who you are."

Bloody hell. First Sam, then Bolly, now this bloke. Always found their way to me, the weirdos. Always.

"A copper," I shouted, taking hold of Byrne by his shirt, almost lifting him off the ground. "_I'm a copper. _A police officer. Like you," I added, and let him go.

He staggered backwards, struggled to keep on his feet. "Like me," he said, gasping. "Like _me_? No. No.

"Almost made it to mandatory retirement here, pal. Took a trip to Columbia Presbyterian to get rid of me. They had to rush me - they had to - they had to -"

He heaved a breath, put a hand to his chest, and looked down, like he expected to see something there. "I hung on, you know," he said. "Wouldn't give 'em the satisfaction. Man, you should've seen Barb's face when -"

I saw his eyes change then, same look I'd seen a hundred times. A thousand.

"No. No," he said. "Oh, my God. What did you do to her?_ What did you do to her?_"

"Do to 'er? She's just off down the street. She's -"

"No, she's gone, she's gone, she's gone," he said, still holding on to his chest, still fighting to breathe.

"Right. I'm taking you to 'ospital." Might be having a bloody heart attack right then and there.

"The hospital." Marty stared back at me, his eyes the same as before. I saw him shake his head, then turn away and stagger towards the reflecting pool.

I followed after. When I got to him he was sitting hunched over, eyes shut, head against his hands - and they were clasped together and all, like he was praying. Not that I reckoned he was.

"Going to tell me what 'appened just now?"

"You don't want to know." Sounded calm enough, but he looked terrible - skin as white as paper, even in that sun. "Better if you don't know."

I stood over him a minute and tried to remember whether I'd seen a phone box on the way over there. I'd already started digging in my pockets for coins when I heard Marty say, "Give me a minute, okay? Just give me a minute. Let me get my shit together."

Didn't sound like much of a plan, given the state of him, but I reckoned I wouldn't be able to shift the stubborn old bastard. Any road, I might have to leave him if I wanted to find his missus. Needed her back there pronto.

If this was a dream, I couldn't wake up soon enough. If, on the other hand, it was a test...

"Right, mate. Get yourself sorted."

* * *

Marty's wife had left the grounds of the memorial and headed towards the shops, but I'd no idea which direction that was. And I knew sod all about Washington. End of. Still, I left Byrne by the reflecting pool and went back over to the street, hoping to work out where his missus had gone. I hadn't been standing there long when I heard someone say my name.

"Inspector Hunt? Gene?"

I turned round and saw that blonde bird walking towards me_. Halle-bloody-lujah.  
_

"What's going on?" she asked. "Where's Marty?"

"Said 'e needed to be on 'is own," I said, looking back over to where her old man was.

"Yeah," she said. "Well, what people say and what they need are two different things. So you were just going to leave?"

"No. Thought I'd try to find you."

"Why?" she said, in a sharp voice. "What's happened?"

"Nothing 'appened," I said. Couldn't look her in the eye, though.

"Oh, my God. You told him."

"What are you on about?"

"Marty didn't know, Gene. He couldn't remember."

"Remember what?"

Soon as I said that, her face crumpled. Looked like she was going to turn on the waterworks and all. _Fandabydozy_. Last thing I needed.

"What happened to him," she whispered.

I remembered something meself then, what Marty had told me back at the pub_: I always said they'd have to take me away on a gurney, maybe even in a body bag._ It was true, then. It'd been true all along.

"Better for him if he doesn't," I muttered.

"No, he's fought so hard," said the missus. "All this time, he's been so angry, so frustrated. He thought it was everything else that had happened, that it was his heart, that it was having to retire. Everything but what they did to us."

_Us_.

I heard a series of gunshots just then, one after another. Lost count of how many. Bastards. _Bastards_. They'd crossed a line, they'd come after -

"He's a cop, he's Serpico, he's the law," Barbara Byrne was saying. "Couldn't be bought.

"But he could be like a bull in a china shop, piss people off. And some of them had long memories," she said, looking down at the pavement. "So does he. So _did_ he. After they - after they took everything else away, all he could remember was the anger.

"But he couldn't talk about it." She pulled out a hankie, wiped her nose. "Anywhere we go, Marty always manages to find another cop, and then you can't shut him up." She looked up at me and smiled, first time since we'd left the pub. "He's said more to you in three hours than he's said to me in three years.

"I was afraid he'd picked the wrong guy one last time. Then I heard you talking about your boss, and I thought, 'He gets it, he really gets it.' You go where you're needed, you help people. Well, maybe you can help us."

Help them? I'd no idea at all what I was doing there meself and this bird thought -_  
_

"Where are we, Gene?" she went on. "I don't mean D.C. Where are we _now_?"

Right. Knew the answer to that one. "Somewhere we go to sort ourselves," I told her. "Coppers - cops. Like your 'usband."

"Like Marty," she said in a low voice. "And you?" she asked, looking up at me.

"Yeah." I saw her flinch, and look down at the pavement again.

"Sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry.

"Just one more thing," she said after a minute. "Our kids are _here_ - our daughter, the boys. But they're not - I mean, they didn't -"

"No, no, no. They'll be fine."

"Thank you," she sighed, wiping her eyes.

"So that's it? We can go home?"

Felt just then like the city, the sun, and all were gone, and I was back in London, standing outside the Railway Arms in the dark, talking to -

"Back to New York, I mean," said Barbara Byrne. "Marty's going to be all right now?"

I didn't know then if he _was_ going to be all right. Didn't know what the truth was anymore. But it would have taken a much colder bastard than my very good self to tell her that.

"Yeah. Yeah, 'e'll be all right. You'll both be all right."

* * *

Barbara wanted to go over and talk to Marty, and I left her to it. Don't know if he'd had time enough then to get his shit together, but I reckoned she could sort him out if he hadn't done.

While I was waiting for them I had another look round and noticed the building across the street from the coppers' memorial, and the sign in front of it.

_**District of Columbia Court of Appeals**_

Court of Appeals. Bloody ironic. No chance of an appeal for any of the blokes whose names were carved on the walls across the street. No chance if you were a deputy to the law.

Hadn't been one for Sergeant Viv James, had there? And no Appeals Court, and no memorial, for Constable -

"You ready?" I heard someone say in a hard New York accent. I turned round and saw Marty standing there, with Barbara next to him.

"Yeah."

The three of us walked away from all of it then, without saying a word about where we were going.

* * *

"You didn't tell her anything, did you?"

Marty and I were sitting outside a coffee shop while Barbara was inside asking about something she called "the facilities." Bloody women. Always keep you waiting.

"What about?"

"My meltdown back there."

I wasn't sure what he meant but answered him anyway. "Nah, I didn't tell 'er."

"Thanks. Didn't want to her to know I lost it." He sighed, stared out across the street. "Like she's got nothing else to think about."

"I reckon your missus is tough," I said, lighting meself another ciggy.

"She's had to be," he muttered. "All those years I busted my ass, she put up with the suicides, the funerals, the nights I was holding up the bar. She kept things together, and I was going to take care of the rest. Huh. Famous last words."

_Things fall apart; the center cannot hold. _Don't know why that came to me just then; I hadn't thought about it in years.

"Nobody would've blamed her if she'd bailed," Marty was saying. "You know how it is."

"Come again?"

"Your ex," he said, shrugging.

I was trying to work out what that meant when he added, "Even harder when you're both cops."

"Weren't bad, though." Made a good team, Bolly and I had. _Posh totty and a bit of rough._

"I thought you walked out on her," said Marty. "_And_ the kid."

"Wasn't like that."

"Whoa, struck a nerve there," he said. "Sorry. So she left you."

"No, she wanted to stay." Only I'd never told anyone. Never.

_You can't do this on your own. You need me, Gene. _

"Okay, you lost me," said Marty. "You mean you kicked her out?"

"I let 'er go," I said. "Did the right thing."

He snorted. "You been watching too many old movies, my friend.

"Still, beats reality, doesn't it?" he said, looking out at the street, the cars passing us by. "Makes you forget how shitty it all is."

It had done, back when I was a lad. Couldn't anymore.

"Man, I could sure go for a beer right now," Marty said. "Block it all out."

Could've done with a drink meself just then. Eighteen pints and a dozen whisky chasers.

"In fact, I – nah, forget about it."

I turned to face him. "What?"

"This is going to sound disrespectful."

"What is?"

"Back at the memorial, that was all I could think about - having a few with the guys. You know, I could almost hear them – Brian, Vince, Jimmy, even my father. Like they'd all just come off a shift and were standing around having a cold one."

He saw me looking at him then, and added, "Forget about it, Gene. Just running my mouth here." He sat quietly for moment watching the people going by on the pavement, and I went on smoking. And thinking about what Sam had told me.

"So this is how it ends," said Marty. "'_Welcome to limbo_.'"

"Isn't the end," I said to him.

"What? So now you're Saint Peter or something?"

I snorted. "I find that highly unlikely."

"Yeah, I guess so." He grinned, went back to looking at the people walking past. "Barb believes in that stuff. Always has."

"Believes in what?"

"Eternal rest, perpetual light," he fired back. "The soul. The whole ball of wax.

"But I couldn't. Not with what I saw on the streets. _'_Hold on, stay with me.' I said that to God knows many people. Didn't do 'em a damn bit of good."

"I'm not a Catholic meself," I said. "But I reckon they knew where they were going and all."

"Is that right." Still sounded skeptical.

"Harry did," I told him. "And Sam."

"Sam too? Jeez, I'm sorry -"

"'e'd finished the job; it was time for 'im to go," I went on. "And in the end, it was peaceful. For 'im and for Harry."

"And that guy Viv?"

"No, it was different with Viv." I stamped out one ciggy, pulled another out of the packet, struck a match. Needed another smoke. _And_ a drink.

"You know, when my father died, I thought: That's it, it's over. _Finito,_" said Marty, snapping his fingers. "Didn't believe in anything anymore. But what did I know, huh?

"Four years later, I joined the NYPD, and then I had -"

"Excuse me."

I looked over to the next table and saw this bird in a skimpy dress. She had a big bastard of a paper coffee cup in one hand and a small radio just like Marty's in the other.

"Your cigarette is, like, really bothering me," she said. "Could you put it out, or at least _move_?"

Gene Hunt does not _move._ And Gene Hunt does not need Lydia the Bloody Tattooed Lady to tell him when and where he can have a fag.

"Bugger off. I'm talking to me mate here."

The girl rolled her eyes, started talking into the radio. "You are not going to _believe_ what just happened," she said. "There's this man here and he's, like, _so rude_ – "

Right. If she was going to keep yapping on like a demented chihuahua, we _would_ find another table. Without a word Marty and I got up, headed past the tourists and this bloke with a strange-looking typewriter and -

"Shit!"

I heard a squeal, and turned round to see this Japanese bird jumping to her feet. One of those girly drinks with cream on top had spilled all across her table.

"My fault, my fault," said Marty as the girl mopped at everything with a hankie. "Let me buy you another, okay?" he said, handing her what must have been a fiver.

The Japanese bird looked at him, then up at me. "It's all right, Guv," she said, with a little smile. "It's going to be all right."

_Guv_?

Before I could ask what she meant, or where that accent was from, she'd picked up her bag and gone back inside the coffee shop. And Marty had got us another table.

But time was running out; we wouldn't have another opportunity to talk. And I'd promised Barbara.

"Right, mate," I said, sitting down. "Young copper. Ready to put the world to rights."

"Say what?" said Marty.

"When you joined the force."

"When I joined the force? Yeah, that was 1973. Seems a million years ago now." He shook his head. "Had all these big ideas. Huh. Didn't know my ass from a hole in the ground. And the city - the city was going to hell in a handbasket. Rough year. Start of a rough few years.

"But that was the summer my buddy Vince got married - July, I think it was. They had the reception in this little restaurant in Yonkers. I was working my way across the room to the bar when I spotted this girl in a red dress. She looked _good_. Still does," he added.

"So I went over, turned on the charm, tried to impress her. The usual bullshit. Like I said, I didn't have a clue. But from then on, I started to get one."

_All your swagger and your bullshit..._

Right. Clues. "Erm, going back to New York this afternoon?"

"Yeah," said Marty. "Getting out of town. Mission accomplished."

"Like Gary Cooper in **High Noon**." I dug in my pockets, found my wallet. "You get 'ome, go to your local, get a round in for you and the missus," I said, handing him some money.

"Forget about it, Gene, I can't -"

"Yes, you can," said Barbara Byrne, coming over to where we were sitting. "Thank you," she said to me.

"You keep 'im out of trouble, love."

"Will do."

"Well, better make a move here," said Marty, standing up. "I promised Barb we'd drop by the National Gallery before we head back up. Madonnas, saints, angels - she loves that stuff."

"In London they've got a National Gallery and all," I told them. "I've never been."

Marty chuckled. "Yeah, that sounds about right. Say, why don't you come with us? Then we'll run you by the embassy."

Wherever they were going, I knew I wasn't going with them. "Nah, don't want to be a gooseberry."

"'Gooseberry,'" said Barbara Byrne, giving me a smile. "I love the way you talk."

"All right, all right," said Marty said to her, then turned back to me. "Well, you ready?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Let's roll."

* * *

_"Taxi!"_

The cab came to a stop alongside us. Marty grabbed the door, yanked it open, and I looked inside. The driver was a big burly bloke with arms covered in tattoos. Gray beard, gray haired pulled back from his forehead. Heavy brows. Eyes like -

"Uh-uh. No way," said Marty, and slammed the door before I could stop him. "Didn't have a license up front," he said as the taxi sped away. "You got to watch these guys."

Decided then and there I'd take my chances with the Tube, or subway, or whatever they called it. Didn't want some git taking half my money when I didn't know a bloody thing about the city, or where my motor was. If I'd hired one.

When we got to the station there was a girl outside playing the fiddle. One of those Irish tunes that goes on forever. There were two lads with her, one playing a drum, the other a guitar. Marty stopped to listen to them, even put a few dollars down.

"Like heaven," he said, grinning. "Man, I could listen to them all day."

"Yeah. Well, you're not," said Barbara. "Gene's got places to go, people to see."

"All right, boss."

He and Barbara took me downstairs, got my ticket sorted, walked me to the gate, Marty talking the whole time.

"Hey, Gene, you got a cell number?"

_Cell_ number? Must have been some sort of coppers' humor.

Before I could work out how to answer that, he said, "Here, take mine," and handed me a card with his name and telephone number and some kind of code below that - letters and numbers. "You run into any trouble, you give me a buzz. Or send me an e-mail."

Didn't know what to say to _that_ either, but before things could get too bloody awkward, Barbara Byrne took my hand.

"Have a safe trip, Guv," she said, smiling at me.

"_Guv_?" said Marty. "You been watching too many episodes of **Prime Suspect**." He turned to me. "Well, this is it." He gripped my hand. "You going to be all right?"

"I'll be fine."

"You need anything, I got your back -"

"No worries."

"Okay. Well, see you round."

"See you round, mate."

"Goodbye, Guv," said Barbara.

_Goodbye, Guv..._

I hadn't meant to watch them go, but I stood there on the tiles and waited while Martin and Barbara Byrne got on the moving stairway and went back up to the street. That girl had started playing the fiddle again, somewhere up above us, and I stood there and listened, and watched. I watched until the Byrnes got to the top and the light hit them both. Couldn't see either of them then, couldn't see anything at all but sunlight. The brightest.

_To be continued..._

* * *

**A/N**: The characters are fictional, but the places are real, including the National Law Enforcement Officers Memorial, which I have visited many times. You can view tributes to the officers, as well as pictures of the memorial itself, at the NLEOMF website.

Lyrics from "Danny Boy" by Frederic Weatherly. While revising this section I frequently listened to Eva Cassidy's version of the song, which accompanies a YouTube video tribute to the NYPD.

The quote from "The Second Coming," by William Butler Yeats, is familiar to anyone who knows episode 7 of series 3._ "Welcome to limbo"_ is just a shout-out to fans of **Class Clown**.

Gene's adventures will continue presently, in a very different and much shorter chapter. _Nil desperandum_. In the meantime, reviews and comments are most welcome.


	4. All Alone, No One to Care

I don't own the **Ashes to Ashes** and **Life on Mars** scripts, liberally quoted below, nor do I own the characters. Any original figures are obviously my fault.

And none of the following would exist at all without the efforts of the peerless grainweevil, who posted transcripts of _all three seasons_ of **A2A**. Thanks for such a valuable (and entertaining) resource.

* * *

**A/N:** As the rat of despair had a go at me this summer (but is only _really_ getting down to business now), I'm grateful to those who have reviewed my stories and offered encouragement, particularly monkey-in-hell, Solo Lady, and theHuntgoeson.

And given the delay between installments, I will provide...

**A recap** **of chapters 1-3**: A few years after saying, "See you round, Bollykecks," to Alex Drake outside the Railway Arms, DCI Gene Hunt's still at Fenchurch East, putting the fear of God up rampaging scum. Then one morning he wakes up in _Washington, D.C_., without a clue how he got there.

It's still all about timing, though, and about making a difference when the guv meets up with fellow cop Marty Byrne and his wife, Barb, and helps the two of them sort things out. Then he heads for the British embassy in the hope of reclaiming his missing passport ...and finding out why he's in D.C.

* * *

**The Heart of a Lion**

**Chapter 4: All Alone, No One to Care  
**

_"I liked the feel of a shield on my chest, and it began to make sense that you wore it over your heart." - Edward Conlon, **Blue Blood**_

* * *

Bit of a shock going underground, when I'd been in the sun so long.

Strange too hearing the voices in the train station, all those different accents, after being down the pub with Marty and Barbara. There were more people about than you'd expect on a Sunday. Noisy lot, too. Seemed like a few of them were talking to themselves, and I kept well clear till I saw they had radios like the one Marty used. They weren't mad, just never stopped yapping. Same thing, I reckoned.

Any road, I got past the turnstiles, found the moving staircase the Byrnes had pointed out, and went down to the platform to wait for the train.

While I was there I spotted this American tart. Dressed to give all the lads an eyeful, she was - red top showing off her tits _and_ her bra straps, pair of jeans so tight it was a miracle she could still wiggle that arse.

Only she had a bloke with her already and didn't seem to care where he put his hands. She'd be dropping her knickers right there, the way they were going on. Bloody women, having it away with any wanker who -

"Excuse me. Excuse me!"

I turned about and saw another woman. More nun than tart, this one, and not enjoying herself either.

"There's no smoking in the Metro system," she said, looking up at me with beady eyes.

Another bird moaning about the fags. _Give me strength_. But I didn't bother telling her to piss off; the train was coming and I had just time enough to throw my cigarette on the tiles and stamp it under my foot. Got inside the doors as they were closing.

* * *

We were sealed in, the lot of us - no one in, no one out until the next station. Felt wrong, that did. Gene Hunt does _not_ ride in poxy trains or poncey taxis, he drives a proper motor. Better for chasing scum.

Only I'd left the Mercedes behind in London, at the mercy of those clumsy bastards in CID. God help them all if I got home and found so much as a scratch or a dent. Then again, I reckoned Holbrooke would sort them out before they did anything excessively brainless.

DI Holbrooke. Worse than Tyler had been when he started - I never saw Holbrooke put a boot up the arse of the scum du jour, not once - but the department looked up to him, had done almost from the first. Maybe it was the way he played Good Cop _and_ Bad Cop. Always got the filth believing he knew more than he was letting on.

Wondered the same meself sometimes. Holbrooke could tell me what the Paddies were about, before they'd even done anything. And he'd said some strange things when he first arrived, going on about counterterrorism and community liaisons and suchlike. Might as well have been speaking Hindustani.

Bloody irritating at times, it has to be said, but he knew his guns, and knew how folk ticked. I'd learnt to make use of that, especially with birds. Holbrooke could talk to women, all sorts - grannies, prozzies, shop girls - and they took to him, every time. Send him round to question a Miss O'Brien or a Mrs. Singh and he'd have her telling him more than she'd meant to.

Mind you, after the first few months he hadn't talked much about himself, and a year on no one at Fenchurch East was sure where he'd come from, what he'd done before. I reckoned it was better they didn't know.

Can't rightly say if _he_ remembered how he'd got there. Some nights I'd see him on his tod while the rest of CID were slumped round the table in the corner, all of them laughing and smoking and three sheets to the bloody wind, and it'd be down to me to prise him away from the bar, tell him to come and join the land of the living.

Or sometimes I'd go over and have a scotch with him. We weren't mates, not the way Tyler and I had been. But there were things Holbrooke needed the Gene Genie's help to sort out. Even with his private education, and his head full of brains.

* * *

Didn't take long to get to the next station, where Marty and Barbara had told me I'd need to change trains and catch the Red Line on the upper level.

I was on my way upstairs when I heard the screaming.

I took the last few steps at a run - thought for the hundredth time about giving up the fags - and made for the platform, and the rampaging mob of toerags waiting for me there. They'd surrounded someone - I couldn't see who - and were hard at work duffing him up.

"Oi!"

Everyone else on the platform had scattered but stayed round to watch, and some of them were holding up their radios - _holding them up_, not calling for help and all. Useless lot.

"Oi! Police!" I ran forward and started peeling off layers of toerag. "Get off 'im! _Get off_!"

Turned out they were kids, just kids. Right bunch of bastards, though, trainers and tattooed fists flying in every direction.

"I said _get off_!" I took hold of this bruiser and was pulling him backwards when a bird came at me, kicking and slapping and cursing fit to split my bloody eardrums.

"What the fuck?"

I hadn't expected there'd be _girls_. Mind you, these were gobby, hefty girls. Bad as the blokes.

And in the middle of them all was that poor sod with his arms over his head. Bastards were still coming at him from every angle -

There was a rumbling in one of the tunnels, and the ground beneath us began to shake, and the red lights along the edge of the platform started flashing. Next thing I knew the train was roaring into the station, and the toerags were running for it like a bloody herd of elephants. Almost knocked me down.

"Get off me! Get off!"

I could hear the bells ringing and the doors scraping open. Another stampede broke out on the platform as everyone else pushed past me onto the train, and I turned round just in time to see the doors slam shut.

As the train began to move the ground started shaking again, and those red lights were going on and off. I heard a dull whine and after that a noise like thunder as the train pulled away and left me standing there. Then everything went quiet, and I realized I was gasping for breath, like I'd just chased a blagger halfway across the city.

And I realized I wasn't alone on that platform.

* * *

He was lying across the tiles, and not moving a muscle or making a sound. But as I walked over he let out a sob and wrapped his arms around his head again, and rolled onto his side, like he was afraid I was coming to finish the job.

"It's all right, it's all right. I'm a police officer." I showed him my warrant card - not that it probably meant much; Marty had told me how it was with the public - and knelt down on those bastard tiles to give him a hand sitting up.

"Easy now, son. Easy."

Turned out he was just a kid too, a skinny black lad with ears that stuck out on either side of his head. And he had on a proper suit - not shorts and trainers, like most of that lot who'd gone on the train - and a white shirt, stained with blood. Seemed I'd got there just in time.

I heard heavy footsteps on the tiles, and looked up to see two men coming towards us: a sturdy young bloke in a police uniform and an older man wearing a blue shirt and dark trousers.

"It's all right; I'm a cop," I said, holding up the warrant card again.

The officer just nodded at me, like we'd been on the same beat a dozen years, and crouched down next to the boy.

The older bloke snorted, "I know who _you_ are," then joined the rest of us on the tiles. "How you doing, bro?" he said to the kid. Lad still hadn't uttered a word; he just sat there rubbing the back of his hand against his nose, and blinking his eyes.

"Going to be all right," the copper told him, then pulled out a radio and said something into it. Can't remember any of it now but _Roll medics_.

"You okay?"

The copper was looking straight at me, and I realized something wet was trickling down to my lip. Blood.

"Yeah," I said, wiping my nose. "No worries."

"I ought to see the other guy, huh?" he said, grinning. There was a gold badge on one side of his chest and his name on the other: _M. Santos._

"Whoa, whoa, little brother. You ain't going nowhere, not yet," the second bloke was saying. He had his hand on the lad's shoulder to stop him trying to stand up. Then we all saw what the kid was looking at: There was a case lying open on the platform, and a saxophone a bit further away - not damaged, far as I could see; toerags hadn't spared the time for that. Too busy beating him senseless.

"Dang," said the older man. "You can play that thing?"

The boy grinned. Didn't say anything but he looked proud of himself, very proud.

"Mm-mm. You and Bird. You and the Big Man!"

That got the kid talking, finally. He'd been waiting for the train, he told us, when that mob had surrounded him. At first they'd just been taking the piss, and nicking his saxophone and all, but then they'd got down to business.

He didn't want to go to hospital - the older bloke snorted again and said he was lucky to be going there, and not the morgue - but if he had to, he needed to call his gran first, and his band teacher, who was waiting for him along with all his mates.

While Santos was taking the kid's statement, the other man pulled me aside. "I saw it all on the monitor," he told me. "I saw how many there were. Couple more minutes and we'd have needed the body bags. Damn kids were out for blood."

"Why'd they target him?" I asked, nodding at the boy.

"He was _there_," said the bloke, shrugging. "Those mothers don't need a reason."

* * *

"You look after yourself, Lawrence. And your gran."

"Yes, sir," said the lad, shaking my hand. "Thank you."

"Shit," Washington, the older bloke, muttered as the medics wheeled the kid away. "They ought to be taking _you_ with him. Or to St. Elizabeths. You crazy, man."

"Look, just chill, okay?" said Santos. "We're cops. This is what we do."

But Washington was still scowling at me. "You crazy, man," he said again, shaking his head. "Flying in like Superman to save the day."

"Nah, just a kid who needed some backup," said Santos. "Won't let him down. Not on my watch." He turned to me. "Been a while, my friend."

I wasn't sure what he meant, so I said. "Yeah. Been doing this a while."

"About ready to hang up your badge."

I reckoned he was taking the piss because of my age. "Nah. Got things to do." And I thought of CID, wondered how that lot were getting on without me to kick their arses.

"Fighting the good fight, keeping the faith, huh?" Santos was saying.

"Till the last bloody second."

"I know, man," said Santos. "I know.

"But don't worry. They're going to be fine."

Strange thing for him to say, but there wasn't time to ask what he meant, not with those toerags still about in the city and on the trains, and decent folk relying on blokes like Santos to hold back the tide of scum.

* * *

After I'd given him my statement and got his phone number with the Transit Police, and Washington's at the station, I caught the next train. Didn't stay on it long, though - no air, no place to have a fag. Got off at Farrier's Gate - at least I think that's what it was called - instead of Dupont Circle, where I was meant to be going. _Dupont Circle_. Sounded poofy. Any road, the one wasn't far from the other. Couldn't make much difference finding the embassy.

But when I got to the street the first thing I saw was a glass building with a giant American flag hanging down inside. There was a big posh hotel too, and shops selling everything from knickers to cigars.

No embassy.

That Irish girl had given me a paper with the address, and a list of street names and all, only none of them was on the signs in front of me. Sod it; I'd just have to rely on my superior sense of direction.

Right. West, then north.

I'd crossed over the road and started along the pavement when I heard the little girl calling out.

"Mummy! Mummy, look!"

Couldn't miss that accent - _English_, not American. English.

And then I heard her mum.

"Slow down, Molls, slow down! What _did_ the hotel put in your cereal this morning, rocket fuel?"

Unmistakable, that voice. Un-bloody-mistakable.

* * *

"Bolly!"

I turned round but there wasn't anyone on the pavement - no Alex, and no little girl. Then I saw the lights were on in one of the shops - only one open on a Sunday, at least on that side of the street, and the only place Bolly and the kid might've gone. No harm having a look inside.

I'd never seen anything like it, not in Manchester or in London: Colored lights strung across the front window, like it was Christmas. Tables and shelves covered with strange toys and knickknacks- even one shaped like the _queen_, handbag and all - and a glass case filled with posh chocolates.

There was a bloke standing behind the counter, and as I came in he looked up, nodded, then went back to his work.

Didn't seem to be anyone else about, but I walked past the counter and towards the back of the shop, just to be sure. No one there either, nothing but cards for birthdays and all. I spotted one with a drawing of a psychiatrist saying to some miserable sod, "Woulda, coulda, shoulda. Next!"

Needed pinning up, that did, right in the kitchen at Fenchurch East. Something to take the piss whenever Drakey started going on about her subconscious.

Only she wouldn't be there, would she, once I got back to my kingdom.

I put the card down then, left that shop pronto. Needed to be outside, where I could have a fag in peace, and move on.

* * *

I'd only just lighted a cigarette and started on my way again when I spotted the Union flag hanging off a building down the street. That was all right, then. I'd have my passport sorted in a jiffy, and maybe my hotel.

But as I came up to the corner I saw the American flag alongside ours. Wasn't the embassy after all, only another shop - this one with wellies and ladies' handbags, and some four-eyed git inside looking at the raincoats.

For the second time I pulled out the paper with those bloody directions, and as I was standing there having another go at them this dark-haired woman walked past. Saw her just out of the corner of my eye: a slim, long-legged bird, in jeans and boots.

And a white jacket I was sure I remembered.

* * *

I didn't call her name. Didn't have any choice; she was halfway across the road before I'd even turned my head to look. I wasn't going to lose her, though, even if I had to dodge a few more cars to keep up.

By the time I'd got across the street she was well along the pavement on the other side. Bit of a surprise when she decided to pop up the steps of this church, but I followed after, cursing the ciggies on every stair, till I got to the top and inside those glass doors.

Been years since I'd set foot in a church but it wasn't bad. Certainly a lot cooler. Whole place seemed to be made of marble, and there were pictures on all the ceilings and walls, in blue and green, red and gold, and to my right a chapel, with something moving about inside. White jacket.

Bingo.

I went over and had a look in. There was an altar with a crucifix, and behind that a statue of a bloke holding the Baby Jesus, and on either side of that, in the corners, rows of candles in red glass.

And no sign at all of _her_.

No, there she was, down those steps, talking to the priest. I thought about going over there and breaking it up, then decided against it. If there was ever a time for softly, softly, this was it.

I found meself a chair, sat down. Wouldn't have long to wait, I reckoned. Even a God-botherer couldn't have strength enough to listen to her prattle on until the end of time.

* * *

_Still, she was taking a long time about it, and after a bit I decided to have a look round, got up from my chair and went into the church proper. _

_There'd been hardly anybody about when I came in, but the pews had filled up since, more people than I'd seen in one place since Coronation Day, only they were all quiet, except for the bloke who was singing. _

_And eyes front, the lot of them. There was something there at the end of the aisle, something covered up with a big American flag..._

* * *

_Don't know how long I was there, but once that bloke had finished his song - Spanish or Italian, can't say which - and everything went quiet again, I noticed the place wasn't as full as it had been. Some of the people had gone, and taken away whatever it was that had been up at the end of the aisle.  
_

Take him, earth, for cherishing,  
To thy tender breast receive him.  
Body of a man I bring thee,  
Noble even in its ruin...

_A choir started singing, in English this time - nothing I recognized, but then I'm not Catholic meself.  
_

Not though wandering winds and idle winds,  
Drifting through the empty sky,  
Scatter dust was nerve and sinew,  
Is it given to man to die.

_Any road, I'd heard enough. Needed to get out of there tout bloody suite...  
_

* * *

_Only there was no way to leave; that lot in the pews were getting up and forming a queue at the front of the church. Wasn't any place left for me to go, either, but then I found a spot off to the side, near the choir. _They_ were all standing about in a circle, with this bird leading them in another song.__  
_

You've got to walk that lonesome valley.  
You've got to walk it by yourself.  
Oh, nobody else can walk it for you.  
You've got to walk it by yourself.

_Blimey, I knew that one. Bloke had sung it in a western I'd seen when I was a lad. No harm listening to it again while I waited for the scrum to subside.  
_

You must go and stand your trial.  
You must stand it by yourself.  
Oh, nobody else can stand it for you.  
You have to stand it by yourself.

* * *

_"Here?"_

_"Right where we're standing. Look down, Molls."_

_Bolly's voice again. And there was Bolls herself, up at the front of the church, with a little girl by her side. The priest had gone, that lot in the pews had cleared out and there was no one else about, just the two of them, staring at something written on the floor.  
_

_"'_Here rested the remains_' - eew - "_

_"Read it to the end, Molly," said her mum. I'd never seen Bolls looking like that, with the longer hair and all. And an arm round her daughter.  
_

_" ..._ 'before their removal to Arlington, where they lie in expectation of a heavenly - of a heavenly' - "

"'Resurrection.'"

_ " - '_of a heavenly resurrection_,'" finished the little girl. "Where's Arlington?"  
_

_"Across the river," said Alex. "You remember, Molls - the big cemetery. We saw it when we flew in."_

_"Oh, yeah. Anyway, I thought he was from Boston."  
_

_"He was," Alex told her. "But they had the funeral in Washington. Though he didn't die here."  
_

_"I _knew_ that, Mummy."  
_

_"Did you?"_

_"Of course," said Molly. "I saw a program about it at Evan's." She started to look round the church. "Can I light a candle? Please?"_

_Bolls was staring up at the ceiling. "What? Oh, candles. Of course, Molls. We'll each light one, okay?"_

_"Okay."_

_I watched the pair of them go over and light the candles - one for the little girl, one for Alex._

_"What are you doing, Mummy? Making a wish?"_

_"No, saying a prayer."_

_"Granddad says you're supposed to make a wish when you visit a church for the first time."  
_

_"Does he? My mum and dad used to take me to church. Nothing like this, but still it reminds me of them. __Do you see that lion up there?"_

_"Where?"_

_"Up there, in the corner. No, higher."_

_"I see him, Mummy! He reminds me of Aslan."_

_Bolls smiled at that. Still looked a bit sad, though. "Yes. Yes, that's what I thought too - Aslan. Narnia. My dad reading **The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe** every night before I went to sleep, and telling me that no matter how bad things seemed, everything would be all right - forever. I felt so safe. As though nothing could ever hurt us."  
_

_"Mum - Mummy -"  
_

_I saw the little girl put her arm round Bolly._

_"I'm all right, sweetheart," said Bolls, stroking her daughter's hair. "I'm all right._

_ "You know, when you were born, I thought: 'Mum and Dad should be here__. I need them to be here.' _

_"Of course I had your gran and granddad, and Evan. They were fantastic. Still, I wish you could've known _my_ parents. Especially my mother. You're more alike than you could possibly imagine."_

_The little girl giggled. "That's what Evan always says. 'S__trong-minded, just like your grandmother.' Though I think he means 'bossy.'"  
_

_Bolls smiled. "Yeah. But he admired her, really. And I - I adored her. You know, sometimes I think I'd give anything to hear her voice again. And Dad's."  
_

_"Like in **Ghost**? Who's that man who gets messages from the 'other side'?" said Molly, waggling her fingers. "John somebody."_

_That made Bolly laugh. In church and all. "No, nothing like that. Come on, Molls," she said. "Let's go look at the other chapels. Then we'll have some lunch, okay?"_

_"Okay."  
_

_"Hang on. Candles - I forgot to put money in the box for the candles."_

_"I'll do it!"  
_

* * *

A handful of coins dropped into that metal box, making enough noise to echo throughout the place, and wake me up. I opened my eyes and saw that dark-haired bird standing there in front of those rows of candles - on her tod, _and_ within earshot. About bloody time.

"Alex."

She turned round then but didn't say a word. Never even looked at me, either, just went off on those high heels. Right out of the chapel. Beautiful woman, probably Spanish.

Any road, she wasn't Alex Drake.

I sat back down, rubbed my head. Toerags must've given me a concussion if I thought I was hearing Bolly, even _seeing_ her. Wasn't my head that ached, though, only my arm and my back. But then I'd been sitting there a while, long enough to fall asleep.

On the way down the steps of the chapel I looked out into the church. Hadn't seen it properly when I'd come in. Too busy trying to find her. I looked up the aisle - nothing, no one there at all now - and then towards the dome, where the light was coming in.

I saw it then, high on the wall.

Bolly's lion. Thought I'd dreamt it, but no, there it was - a lion with a dark mane and a pair of wings.

White wings.

* * *

_HMP Fenchurch. Everything dark. Jimbo had been busy playing soldiers when Bolly and I had gone in to smash the fuse box. Then I'd had to leave her behind to look after Chris and Ray while I took the radio and went to find Skip. _

_"Viv, are you receiving me? Over. Skip, where are you?"  
_

_Can't say which was worse, waiting for him to answer or hearing his voice when he finally did.  
_

_"Don't tell her. Don't tell my mum."_

_"Don't tell her what?" I said into my radio.  
_

_"Don't tell her that I was scared."_

_"You're not scared, Viv," I told him. "You're a brave man."_

_"Don't tell Mum that I was scared."  
_

_I kept moving forward. "You've got the heart of a lion. Do you hear me?" _

_Never found out if he had. Never heard Skip say another word to me at all._

* * *

_The wing had gone quiet by the time I found the hallway and saw Viv lying on the floor. Oh, God, what the filth had done to him.  
_

_"I just got here," lied Jimbo. "I think he's gone."_

_"I'll take him," I said, kneeling down.  
_

_But Keats wouldn't shift himself. Or let go. "It's too late, Gene."_

_Could've broken every last one of that smug bastard's fingers. Almost did, then and there.  
_

_"I'll take him!" I said, wrenching his hands off Viv. "Come on, Skip. Stay with me." _

_Keats still wasn't leaving it alone. __I was on my knees in that shithole, Viv battered and bleeding on the floor, but that wasn't good enough for Jimbo. Oh, no, he had to rub my nose in it. _"What are you trying to achieve?"

_"Shut it!"  
_

_I was still holding Skip's head in my hands when Chris and Ray and Alex got there. My deputies. My team__. Should've been all right then, but it felt like someone had ripped my heart out.  
_

_I looked up at the three of them. "He was defending this wing - alone," I said. "To the death. So we put aside past mistakes, you understand? He's a hero."  
_

* * *

Wasn't a lie, not really. Ray told me how Skip had fought back, after the scum had beaten him senseless, and what they'd done to him then.

Didn't deserve that. And he didn't deserve to die on the floor of a dark, filthy prison, his shirt soaked with blood.

Good a copper as any of us, Viv was. Better sometimes. I'd seen it for meself.

* * *

_"Come on, Shazzer," Skelton said. "You're my girl. You've always been my girl." He was down on his knees, on the ground next to WPC Granger. "Shaz, don't leave me."_

_Wasn't any use, though. One look at Bolly's face told me all I needed to know.  
_

_"Come on, son," I said, pulling Chris to his feet. He fell against me, crying, while that stupid bastard who'd stabbed his bird stood barricaded behind a group of uniforms and watched it all.  
_

_I fixed my eye on Hollis. "Get him on his knees."  
_

_"Guv, he's cuffed__," said Skip. "He's in custody."_

_"Not your problem, Viv."  
_

_Only he_ made _it his problem.  
_

_"Guv! Guv, he's cuffed!"_

_And Bolly's._

_"Ma'am!"  
_

_I should've listened to Viv; I knew it even then. But all I could see was our Shazzer lying there, eyes still open but staring at nothing. And Alex begging her to fight. And Ray standing about looking helpless. _

_Made my blood boil. We were coppers, we'd lost one of our own, and there was Gil Hollis, safe as houses. If Chris and Ray wanted to beat six kinds of shit out of him, it was all right with me. _

_Only Skip didn't see it that way. And neither did Bolls._

___"What have you done?"_

* * *

There were times Bolly came close to hating me, and I reckon that was one. Didn't take her long to forgive me, though. Bolls always forgave me.

So did Viv, no questions asked.

And when his time came, he deserved as much. It wasn't just that he was one of us; we'd trusted him. Never knew him to put a foot wrong before that day at HMP Fenchurch, and even then he'd tried to tell me, more than once. But I wouldn't listen, and Keats wouldn't let him speak.

And You - where were You when Skip needed You? When he was praying to You on his knees - _on his knees_ - in that bloody prison?

_...and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil..._

It'd been my turn to look after him, and I'd made a cock-up of it. But where were You when he was led into temptation_,_ delivered right into the hands of -

* * *

"Are you here for confession?"

I jumped a mile, then looked down and saw it was only that priest - a young bloke wearing glasses and one of those long black things that buttons up the front. And a frown.

"No, I bloody am not," I said, scowling to put the fear of God up him, stop him creeping about and giving folk heart attacks. Saw his face change, too, soon as I looked him in the eye. Blimey, he was young. About of an age to borrow his dad's razor.

"Okay," he said, holding up his hands. "Okay. No confession. But I'm here to help, if you want to talk about - "

"No need to come over all Dorothy, padre." I walked out of the chapel then, and out the door of the place, onto the steps. Sun was bright enough to make my eyes water, and it felt like my nose was bleeding again. Little souvenir from the toerags, I reckoned.

* * *

As I went down I could see a tramp already waiting for me. He held up his cup as I got to the foot of the stairs, and I was about to tell him to piss off when I thought of Marty and those buskers. Pulled out a fistful of dollars instead.

"Thank you, sir," said the tramp, showing me a mouthful of crooked teeth. "God bless you."

Right. I'd just bought _one_ man a drink. High time I did the same for meself.

* * *

Over the road there was this restaurant with a bar, and an impressive collection of bottles filling the shelves. Any port in a storm.

I ordered a scotch, found an empty table, tried to ignore all the noise in the place - from the _two_ big color tellies, and the people round me. Going on about American football and politics, most of them. Wasn't sure I knew the difference.

Any road, I wasn't there to listen. Or drown my sorrows, come to that.

I was there to remember.

* * *

After the prison riot the press had come round to talk to us all - Detective Inspector Raymond Carling, who was still in CID then; Detective Constable Christopher Skelton; Detective Chief Inspector James Keats, of Discipline and Complaints; and one Detective Inspector Alexandra Drake.

And my very good self.

They wanted to hear about Skip, of course, or, as they called him in their stories, _Sergeant Vivian James_, and I'd kept all the newspaper cuttings, left them pinned to the notice board in my office.

_AT HMP FENCHURCH, A DAY OF TERROR - AND OF COURAGE  
_

_'QUIET HERO' MOURNED AS MET LOSES ONE OF ITS FINEST_

_COLLEAGUES PAY TRIBUTE TO 'A LOVELY MAN' AND 'THE BEST SKIPPER'_

Funny thing. When those reporters came sniffing around Fenchurch East for stories about Viv, I hadn't needed to brief Chris and Ray. Or Shazzer. I knew they'd put the best face on it, for Skip's sake, and I did the same and all.

I'd talked to those reporters. But I hadn't listened to Viv.

_Woulda, coulda, shoulda -  
_

"Sir! Sir, you can't smoke in here!" Barman looked like he was about to burst a blood vessel, so I knocked back the rest of the scotch and got to my feet.

"Word of advice," I said to him. "That stick up your arse. Ought to get it seen to."

Then I threw down a couple of bills to settle my tab and walked out of the place.

* * *

Must've got turned round once I left that bar. Nothing but restaurants down this street.

One of them was an Italian place. Whole front of it was made all of glass, and I could see a man inside looking after a couple at one of the tables - passing round the bread, pouring the house rubbish. Bloke had more hair on his upper lip than on his head, but he was a cheerful bugger. Looked like he knew his customers, too - a dark-haired girl who was showing him the ring on her finger, and a young bloke next to her, fit to burst with pride.

Then I spotted the sign on the place.

_Luigi's._

When I looked back at the window I couldn't see that couple anymore, or the bloke with the mustache, just a young plod staring back at me. Skinny lad. Needed fattening up.

Like a bloody fool I turned round, as though I'd find him standing behind me on the pavement. But there was no one there at all, and when I turned my eyes back to the glass I just saw DCI Hunt. Bit worse for wear. What was it Sam had called me? Overweight and over the hill. Mind you, it _had_ been a while since Hendon, and I'd fattened up a bit.

Overweight, over the hill, and over here - wherever _here_ was; I wasn't certain anymore, even after what I'd said to Barbara - and maybe Santos was right. Time I hung up my badge -

Bollocks. _Bollocks._ Hadn't even approached my prime yet. Going to take more than a punch-up to stop the Gene Genie.

Right. About turn. I was heading north this time. North, then west.

* * *

Further up the road I decided to have another look at those street names, took out the paper and laid it down on one of those handy tables I kept finding along the pavement. Coffee shops everywhere in that bloody city, and no place at all to have a fag. Explains a lot about the Americans.

"Hey, man, you need directions?"

I looked over and saw this spiky-haired bloke. He was slouched down in his chair, and dressed like an anarchist to the bargain - black t-shirt, black jeans. Honest face, though. And he hadn't sounded like he was trying to take the piss.

"Erm. Massachusetts Avenue?"

"Almost there. Just up the street and across the circle. Where you headed?" He got up from his chair, came over and looked at the directions. "Aw, man, you got a ways to go."

Right friendly bloke, offered then and there to see me as far as the circle. I reckoned I didn't need his help but he said it was on his way, then just picked up his bag and went with me up the street.

Talked my ear off the whole way too. Soon as he heard my accent he started going on about films. Turned out he liked the flicks, loved 'em, and had seen more than Bolly, _or_ Chris.

When we reached the circle he just went on with me, past all the hippies and tramps and kids round the fountain, till we got to the street corner. Told me I'd be fine as long as I followed Massachusetts Avenue.

"All right, man," he said, shaking my hand. "Take care."

"Ta. See you round."

"_Awesome_ boots, by the way," he said. "Awesome." Gave me a grin and a wave, then he was on his way.

Strange bloke. But helpful.

* * *

Bit of a way down the road I came to a statue of Gandhi - the Yanks must be mad for things like that; they'll be putting up Nelson Mandela next week, see if they don't - across from a large building with a flag hanging off it. Noticed then there were more flags about than at a football match, and reckoned that spiky-haired bloke had been telling me the truth. I was surrounded by embassies, and headed in the right direction at last, even if it was a bit of a way to go. Still, wasn't a bad day for it - hardly a cloud in the sky. I could get used to this.

After a few more buildings I came to a roundabout with another statue, this time of a soldier on horseback. I'd almost got past him when there was a deafening noise. Knocked me right to the pavement.

_Bomb. Car bomb..._

I was up on my feet in a tick, though. There were people walking on ahead of me, and I'd need to get them to move back, I'd need to clear the area -

"_Oi!_"

Couple turned round and looked at me, then just kept walking, like nothing had happened.

I looked round and saw there was no sign of an explosion at all - not so much as a bit of smoke and ash.

And it was quiet too. I slapped my ears, but the only thing I could hear was a car or two going by. Nothing else at all. Blimey, maybe that bloke at the train station had been right; they should have taken me off to hospital. Worse than a concussion, this was.

Only I reckoned I'd been hearing things since I'd got to the city.

Still, there was nothing for it but to keep going.

* * *

And it couldn't be much farther. I'd gone past a dozen bloody embassies. Weren't that many countries left in the world.

To my right I saw a building that looked like something out of the Arabian Nights. Seemed they were having a bit of a do there that day; they'd set out long tables in the courtyard, and the women were going back and forth, bringing out the food and all.

There was this bearded bloke standing by the gate, and he smiled at me as I walked past. "You are doing well," he said in some sort of foreign accent, and handed me a bottle.

There was only water inside, but I finished the lot. Getting a bit warm on that street.

* * *

Or hot, more like.

Right. The tie could stay on, but the jacket was coming off. Didn't make much difference, though; still felt like I was in a bloody furnace. But I kept walking and all.

_Go, go, go, go! Move it! Move!_

Up ahead was another building. Big brick place. Might be the one. And there were people up there; I could see them, hear their voices.

_Guv! Guv! You need to listen!_

No time for that, Skip. Things to do, places to be. Even if I felt like I was burning up.

What was that smell? Petrol. They'd thrown a petrol bomb at Viv and the rest of 'em; I remembered that now. Burst into flames soon as it hit the ground.

Through the smoke I saw someone standing on the other side of the road. Looked like he was waving one arm at me. Took me a moment before I realized it was a statue. _Churchill._ It was Churchill. And there was the gate beyond him - lion on one side, unicorn on the other. I was there, I'd made it -

"Coming through!"

I felt something fly past me on the _pavement_, some sort of wheeled thing with a bloke aboard it. He was wearing a helmet, looked like he'd come from outer space.

"_Oi_!"

"Yeah, I see you! I see you!" he called back at me. That lot up ahead of us parted like the Red Sea as he tore past them.

Only he wasn't alone; there seemed to be an army following behind him, all wearing helmets and riding on those things, racing past me and towards the crowd. The last bloke turned round and looked at me.

"See ya, wouldn't want to be ya!" he shouted, then sped onwards. I saw people jumping out of the way, heard a couple of the girls shrieking. Couldn't see just what had happened, though; too many people about for that.

"_Oi!_"

I ran forward but that lot wearing the helmets were already long gone. Still a lot of people on the pavement, though - a girl with a scarf round her head, a bloke in a stetson, another in a turban, a priest in his dog collar.

"Anybody 'urt?" I called out. But I didn't wait for an answer. Wasn't time for that. I needed to sit down, catch my breath, wait till the pain in my chest stopped, wait till the -

Oh, God. Oh, _God._

_To be continued..._

* * *

**A/N**: The characters are fictional, but the places - the shops, the roundabout, the cathedral with the winged lion, and even Luigi's - are all real. For those of you who don't live in the D.C. area, St. Elizabeths (Yes, St. _Elizabeths_) is a psychiatric hospital.

The psychiatrist card exists too, and the image, one of Bruce Eric Kaplan's cartoons from **The New Yorker**, can be viewed online.

I've peppered this chapter and the previous three with references to real-life historical events, and in that vein, the setting of "Take Him, Earth, for Cherishing" Gene dreams about is the one composed by Herbert Howells and sung at a memorial service for John F. Kennedy in 2003.


	5. Unfinished Business

Now that this chapter is complete, I'll be putting up the final three installments at intervals of hours or days, not months.

I confess too that I made several adjustments to number 5 after reading several new A2A stories with very similar themes and even considered deleting THOAL entirely. But chapters 6, 7, and 8 more or less wrote themselves months ago, and anyone patient enough to read this deserves to know what happens to Gene.

Many thanks to Miss Laurentia, onus probandi, Siggy, Solo Lady, and theHuntgoeson for their support, and perpetual gratitude to the fabulous grainweevil for the transcripts (I can't do _anything_ without a transcript...).

**Disclaimer:** Gene Hunt, Alex Drake, Sam Tyler, and other **LOM** and **A2A** figures, as well as any quotes from either series, were created by Matthew Graham and Ashley Pharoah and their team of writers. Original characters are my own doing, but the locales aren't.

**Recap:** After saying goodbye to his new friends, retired cop Marty Byrne and his wife, Barbara, DCI Gene Hunt heads into a Washington, D.C., Metro station...just in time to intervene in a mob attack on a young boy. When the investigating officer arrives, he seems to know a lot about guv and even hints that it's time to hang up the sheriff's star. Of course Gene isn't having any of that and soldiers on, by train and on foot, to the British embassy. A few steps short of his destination, however, events take an unexpected turn...

**The Heart of a Lion  
**

**Chapter 5: Unfinished Business  
**

_If you descend into somebody else's private hell and stand there with them, it ceases to be hell. _

_- Father Mychal Judge, OFM_

* * *

First thing I remember was hearing this bloke shouting, "Get back, people! Give him some room! _Give him some room_!"

There were other voices too, coming from all about me, even _above_ me.

"Oh!"

"What happened?"

"I think he's having a seizure."

"No, it's something else."

"Might've been drinking."

Realized then I was already on the ground, and that lot I'd seen walking along the pavement were gathered round me. Felt dizzy looking up at them all.

The fella who'd been shouting got down on his knees next to me. "You having chest pains?" he said in an accent like Marty Byrne's.

"Yeah," I said, nodding. Bad decision; just moving brought on the nausea again.

"But you can still breathe all right?"

"Course I can." Didn't need anyone giving me the kiss of life. Especially a bloke. "Talking to you, aren't I?"

The man grinned. "Okay, hang on," he said. "I'm going to call 911. " Looked like an old hippie, with that beard and faded jacket and all, but he seemed to know what he was about.

"Oh, my Lord." This grey-haired little black woman had come over to us. "Jerry," she said to the bloke, "he looks positively ashen."

"Stay with him, Angela." The hippie had pulled a radio out of his pocket and started punching the buttons. "And see if you've got any aspirin in your purse -"

"Right. I'm here to help," said another voice. Sounded familiar, but I couldn't say why. "Why don't I use my mobile to call - "

"No, I got it, I got it," said Jerry, holding the radio against his ear.

"Now don't you worry," the woman told me. "We're going to get an ambulance here right away."

"Don't need - don't - "

"...Kahlil Gibran Park," Jerry was saying into his radio. "That's on Massachusetts Avenue. I don't know which block, but it's right across from the British embassy. No, I said the _British_ embassy."

_Right across from the British embassy._ Which might as well have bloody disappeared, for all I could see of it with this lot standing round me - no, hang about; there was the gate. I could still see that, over the road from where we were.

And the figure of the lion, high at the top.

* * *

"All right, get back, everybody. Move!"

Pair of hefty birds were rolling a trolley over from the ambulance, and I managed to get to my feet before they reached me. Jerry left me to it, but Angela said, "Ooh, careful!" and put out her hand, as though she was strong enough to stop me falling. As though Gene Hunt needed strange women helping him up off the ground.

Mind you, soon as I'd stretched out on the trolley, those two birds set about strapping my legs down before I could stop them. As they began wheeling me away I saw we _were_ at some sort of park or memorial, a lot smaller than the one for coppers, and there was something bloody strange carved into the stone:

**I LOVE YOU**

**MY BROTHER**

**WHOEVER YOU ARE**

Bloke in the faded jacket was walking along behind as they took me to the ambulance. Reminded me of Sam Tyler on the street in Manchester the day that girl was shot, only Jerry wasn't ordering people about, just watching them. And me.

The woman called Angela had followed us too, and while the two birds were loading me inside the ambulance and hanging oxygen tubes round me like tinsel on a bloody Christmas tree, she called out:

"I'll be praying for you!"

That was the last thing I heard before they shut the doors and we all drove off.

* * *

_Chest pains._ Magic words. Got me inside the doors of the hospital and on through to casualty.

After we'd done with the paperwork, that is._  
_

"Next of kin?" the girl at the desk asked me.

_No worries, love. Take your time. Only a heart attack._

"Next of kin. Right - "

Wasn't as though I could give her Mam's address and telephone number. Or the missus's. _Ex_-missus's.

"A friend, maybe?" she said. "Neighbor? Professional contact?"

Thought about Marty, but he'd already left with Barbara. Then I remembered he wasn't the only American copper I knew.

"Erm, Santos. Miguel Santos. Transit Police. Hang about, got 'is phone number 'ere..."

Felt knackered just sitting there answering questions, not that I'd been fit when we drove up to casualty. Then that bird started in on _coverage_. Had me digging through my wallet to see if there was anything I'd overlooked.

_Bingo._ Must've arranged the travel insurance before I left London, though I didn't remember it. Or leaving London.

"Now," said the girl, "if you could just show me a photo ID - "

"_Photo ID?_"

"Passport, driver's license," she added helpfully, like I was thick.

"Warrant card'll 'ave to do you, sweetheart," I said, throwing mine on the table.

"Um, warrant card?"

"Wouldn't 'ave been walking all the way across Washington Bloody D.C. to the British embassy now, would I, if someone 'adn't done a runner with my passport," I told her. "Welcome to America, _thank you very much_."

She was staring at my warrant card. "Oh, my God, you're a cop," she said. Her voice had gone up a bit. "Like that Inspector Morse guy. _And_ you got mugged," she added. "Oh, my God. I'm sorry." Took her another moment to sort out the paperwork, and then she looked up at me again.

"Okay, we're going to get hold of the embassy ASAP. You can go on through now, Mr. Hunt."

* * *

Turned out the fun was just beginning, though.

They put me inside one of those rooms full of computers and other rubbish, and started with the poking and prodding. And more questioning. And pasting wires to my chest like I was the bloody Frankenstein monster.

Wasn't exactly well pleased with any of that, but then they told me I'd have to get the rest of my kit off, not just my shirt, and gave me something the size of a pinny to put on.

At least they left me on my tod while I got that sorted. Which I'd just done when this bloke walked in.

"_Viv_?"

"'Viv'? You got the wrong guy, man," he said. "My name's Rafael." I caught his accent then - Jamaican, not English.

"Sorry. You look like someone I know." _Knew._

"'Viv.' Sounds like my grandmother, Vivienne," he said. "All right, we're going to get your weight," he said cheerfully. "Just step up on the scale. There you go!"

As I was getting down, he added, "Why don't I get you another gown? You can wear it like a bathrobe."

"Thanks, mate."

He fetched me another pinny, and after I'd put it on, he said, "Now you just relax, and Saint Michael will be right with you."

"_Saint Michael_?"

Rafael chuckled. "I mean Dr. Engel, but everybody's been calling him 'Saint Michael' since he led that mission to Haiti after the quake. He _hates_ it - the nickname, not Haiti.

"Now, you need anything else?"

"Suppose a beer's out of the question."

Bloke laughed again. "Man after my own heart. Nah, that's going to have to wait till you get out of this place. Have one for me when you do, though, okay? Take care."

After Rafael had gone this skinny bloke with glasses and a folder turned up. "Mike Engel," he said, sticking out his hand for me to shake. Got a good look at him then; he was wearing a white coat with a pin on it. _White House Medical Team_.

"Keep old Ronnie fit, do you?"

"Ronnie?" He looked as though he hadn't a clue what I was talking about.

I nodded at the pin. "Reagan."

"Reagan?" He grinned. "No, that's someone else's job nowadays, thank God."

_Someone else's job_. Right. Talking of which...

"Come to tell me I'm ready for the knacker's yard, 'ave you?"

"Knacker's yard?"

"Finished. No good to anyone."

He stared at me, then said, "Now why would I do that?"

"They reckon I've 'ad an 'eart attack."

"Yes, you have, but a mild one."

"Bastard did some damage, though, didn't it?" I said. "Bit of a plumbing problem."

"Well, that's one way to put it," said Engel. "A better analogy would be the engine of a car - still running, even if it's not firing on all cylinders."

Never thought of meself as a Quattro. Or even a Cortina.

"They've just had a look under the hood, and now it's my job to come up with a plan of action, get you up and moving."

He told me then he could sort out the blockage, put in something called a stent - wouldn't even have to cut my chest open for that - and give me a few pills to take. They'd keep me in hospital for a few days, then have me out and about, no worries.

"We'll want to coordinate with your team across the pond," he said. "In fact, once you get back to London, your support system is going to be absolutely key..."

I liked this Engel bloke, even with the way he talked. He understood I was a copper, needed to get back to CID, my deputies, and wasn't going to let a bloody heart attack stop me.

"...it's a whole new day - well, a new life, really."

He handed me a form then - _more_ paperwork; seemed the Yanks couldn't get enough of it - and I signed my name. He was going to set right to work, see me through the next bit, then have his staff sort the rest out for me.

At this rate, I reckoned I'd be firing on all cylinders by the time I got home.

* * *

I shook Engel's hand before he left, and not long after that a couple of the nurses came in to see me to the operating theater. Didn't fancy having _girls_ wheeling me about - I'd always driven meself, even after the colliery blag - but I didn't have any choice. Not wearing that sodding pinny.

Thought I'd make the best of it, have a bit of a kip while they pushed me along. I might've done too, if it hadn't been for the noise from the lift bells and all the machines. And the voices.

Including a couple I remembered.

* * *

"Mummy, Mummy, don't leave me!"

"Don't worry, sweetheart. I'll be right outside..."

_Bolly_. I tried to sit up and turn round, but those nurses were rolling me down the hall like we were all in the bloody Grand Prix.

"... and I'll be waiting for you, I promise," I heard Alex calling out to the little girl. "It's going to be all right, Molly_._.."

That was all I managed to catch before we rounded the corner and it was back to the lift bells and the machines and the voice on the hospital tannoy.

"Dr. Himmelstern to Cardiology, Dr. Himmelstern to Cardiology..."

* * *

Right. Time to fire up the Gene Genie.

Funny thing. I didn't feel much of anything once I was in the operating theater. They'd given me something, of course, but I stayed awake and could tell they were mucking about with my arms and legs - everything but my chest, seemed like. Didn't hurt, though, just felt a bit warm. All over in a jiffy too, like Dr. Engel told me.

Next thing I knew I was rolling down the hallway to my room, and half sleeping already. Looking forward to trying that in a proper bed for a change.

And then for the second time I heard Bolly's voice.

* * *

"...I'd told her which way to look, I'd _told_ her, and then when she stepped into the road, I thought...I thought I'd lost her."

"Well, she came through with flying colors," said another voice. "No bones broken. She is one tough little girl."

"Yes, she is." Couldn't tell if Bolls was crying or laughing. Both, maybe. "But she's still my baby. She's very nearly my entire family..."

Didn't catch the rest of it, same as before.

Mind you, I might've put it _all_ down to the sedation. Or the scotch. Or a dream. But I knew it was Bolly's voice. Would've known it anywhere.

Even flat on my back in hospital, with more drugs in my system than the Fenchurch East chemist's.

* * *

"Mr. Hunt, there's someone here to see you."

I opened my eyes. There was still a lot of sunlight in the room, and I could see one of the nurses standing there, next to this posh-looking blonde.

"Hello, Mr. Hunt," she said. "I'm Celia Jordan..."

Cut-glass accent. Definitely not a Yank.

"...from the embassy."

"Embassy. Right."

"How are you feeling?"

"Hmph. Ought to see the other bloke."

Brought a smile to her face, that did. "Yes. Well, you've had quite the adventure."

"Don't know the 'alf of it."

"You might be surprised."

"In the underground...this lad...they were duffing 'im up. Scum. Tried to stop 'em...needed to stop 'em."

"I understand."

"See, I'm a copper."

"I know."

"Got meself a couple of professional contacts. Bloke from New York, Martin Byrne. NYPD. And a copper 'ere named Santos."

"Good. That's good."

"Only two members of my team 'ave gone missing. 'aven't seen 'em since last night."

"Well, we should be able to trace them," said Miss Jordan. "Don't worry."

"And Viv. Got to find Viv."

"Viv?"

"Sergeant Vivian James. Our skipper. HMP Fenchurch...shouldn't 'ave let 'im go in. Tried to tell me, Skip did, tried to warn me -"

"Yes, I understand."

"Promised I'd get 'im out of there. Promised -"

"All right, you mustn't tire yourself. I'll just leave you to rest, shall I? You're in very capable hands here," she added, nodding towards the nurse. "But we'll be in touch, and help you sort everything out. I promise."

She took a step closer to the bed, and smiled at me. "And if I don't see you before you leave for London, let me wish you Godspeed."

Then she was gone, both she and the nurse, and I was alone again._  
_

* * *

After a bit a woman came in to bring me some food and juice. _Juice_. Don't know how the Yanks expect folk to get well if they serve them rubbish like that.

Still, wasn't all bad. I had the room to meself, and a telly, which one of the nurses showed me how to work - said she'd leave me to _channel surf_, the cheeky mare - and I watched a bit, dozed through a lot more, till I managed to find a program about coppers - bloke named Lewis and his DI. Took an interest in that one but fell asleep again before they'd learnt who the murderer was.

When I woke up there was something - _someone_ else on the telly: a man in a white coat, only he wasn't Dr. Engel, wasn't anybody I remembered meeting.

"...I will be consulting with my colleagues, of course, before taking any further measures, but rest assured we are following all the usual procedures for a case such as yours..."

Telly suddenly went blank, then switched back on again. The doctor was gone but someone else had taken his place. Blimey, it was Holbrooke.

And he was talking. As always.

"...as long as they offer you _all_ the options - statins, CR programs - the prognosis ought to be good," he was saying. "But then you're indestructible, Guv. Why, you'll bury us all."

_Shit._ Holbrooke almost never called me "Guv." Something was wrong. Very wrong.

"Look, I know we've had our differences," he said. "_Have_ our differences," he added, with a bit of a smile. "And I know I told you I didn't think I'd be here much longer.

"What you don't know is that DCI Flammen has been urging me to get out. In fact he said he'd like to see me transferred to his division.

"But I've requested he withdraw my name from consideration - permanently," said Holbrooke. Then he grinned at me. "I can't leave _now_, Guv. Haven't learnt this much in years. Or ever felt I could make such a difference..."

Before he could finish, the screen went mad, started buzzing, and then...

_Bolly._

She was standing outside the Railway Arms, wrapped up against the cold, just as she'd been the last time I saw her, only she wasn't wearing that dark heavy coat of hers, she was in white - not the leather jacket this time, something softer. Suited her, though.

"...I don't know if you can even hear me," she was saying. "Perhaps you can. You said once we had a connection. I'll just take it on faith that we still have."

She looked down, smiled. "Faith. It always comes back to that, doesn't it? Faith, and respect, and trust. I've learnt that now, I understand it." Smiled again then, Bolly did, but her eyes looked sad. "Better late than never.

"And I understand something else now too, Gene: how deeply I hurt you, how _very_ deeply I hurt you - "

The telly flickered, then switched on again, a bit blurry. I looked for Bolly, but she was gone and now -

_Shit._

That pale, wide forehead about filled the whole screen of the telly. Barely left room for those birth-control glasses. And that pair of beady eyes.

"Gutted," said Keats. "Stabbed in the back. Stabbed through the _heart_." Bastard seemed to be staring straight at me. "Shot through the forehead..."

Screen went black, and Jimbo disappeared.

Then I saw a light come on - a little one, mind you, but it grew until the screen was bright again and I could see Holbrooke standing there.

"...not because you're in hospital," he was saying. "Because we're a team. Because we put our lives on the line - with you at the front, Guv. Always. You know, I think you'd go through hell for any one of us. Well, I just wanted you to know that I'd go -"

"Boo!" That speccy bastard was back. "Or do I mean 'boom'?" he said. "One or the other.

"Still, his loyalty does him credit," said Keats. "Not that it's well-placed..."

The telly switched off completely then, but came back in a tick.

And there was Alex, still in white. And more beautiful than I'd remembered, or dreamed, with the wind blowing her hair about and her face just a bit ruddy, like she'd been running.

And those eyes of hers looking right at me.

"You know, it's ironic," she said. "All that time I spent trying to get home, trying to get away from you, and you were the one to tell me to leave.

"And I'd told you I was like Sam, but I didn't know the half of it. I _was_ like him...because you let him go too, even though you didn't want to lose him." Bolly was almost whispering. "Even though it broke your heart.

"But you'd have done anything for Sam. Well, you deserve to know he'd do anything, _go_ anywhere for you. And so would I, Gene. So would - "

There was a buzzing sound and the screen went dark. If Keats appeared again I swore I would smash that telly meself, even if I had to do it with my bare hands.

Only it wasn't Keats this time, it was Viv.

Hospital room got a bit warm, just like the operating theater, and I could smell smoke, like someone had thrown a petrol bomb nearby, and could see the sweat on Skip's forehead and the blood on his white t-shirt. Still. Even after all these years...

"...wish I'd told you everything, Guv," he was saying. "Family - you'd have understood that.

"But I let you down. And Chris and Ray, when they'd put their lives on the line and all. 'Greater love hath no man.'" He looked down at the ground. "Well, I reckon I got what I deserved - "

No. _No. _Didn't deserve that, not Skip -

Bloody telly went mad again, lines all over the screen, then snapped back into focus, and there was this dark-haired bird. Sharp jaw, sharper voice.

"Don't you _dare_ give up," she said. "We're going to fight this, I promise you. What's more, the -"

She sounded familiar, _looked_ familiar, but before I could work out who she was, the television buzzed again, and Keats was back. _Oh, joy._

"Is there anything as mind-numbingly tedious as a woman with a _cause_?" said Keats. "Quite the little Joan of Arc, isn't she, though of course not _nearly_ as pure," he added, grinning. Then his face went serious again and he said, "Mind you, it all ends the same way. 'Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.'

"As for Sergeant Vivian James, _your skipper_," he sneered, "fighting didn't exactly help him the first time, did it? What makes you believe that now - "

I struggled to get up from the bed, but something seemed to be holding me back. Realized then that the screen on the telly had gone black, and the sound was dead, and that there was someone standing _in my room_, whistling a tune I'd heard before.

Made my blood boil. Bastard. _Bastard..._

* * *

"No! No! What are you doing?"

Found meself standing upright next to my hospital bed, with this nurse right beside me, not far from where Keats had been.

"Erm, I saw someone. In the room."

"There's no one 'ere. Must 'ave been on the telly. I'll turn it off, shall I?" she said, pressing a button. "Oh, look what you've done!" she added, and started sorting out that thing they'd attached to my hand. She was a small bird, good foot shorter shorter than I was, but a determined pair of stockings.

Sounded familiar too. "Where's that accent from?" I asked her.

"Never you mind," said the nurse, still mucking about with the tubes and cords and all.

"You're a northern lass, you are."

"Might be" was all she said. But I saw her smile.

"I knew it. What's your name, love?"

"Ariel."

"_Ariel_? Never met a Manchester girl called Ariel."

"Well, now you 'ave," she said, then smiled again. "Mam liked the name. Saw **The Little Mermaid** before I was born.

"Now, get back into bed!"

Bossy little thing. But she was one of Engel's team; I knew I could trust her. _And_ she was from Manchester.

I settled meself back onto the bed, got the covers sorted and all, while Ariel finished whatever it was she was doing.

"Just press the call button if you need anything, Mr. Hunt," she said. "I'll be right outside."

_I'll be right outside..._

"And try to get some rest," she said. "Got a big day tomorrow!"

* * *

_Big day tomorrow_. Didn't ask her what she meant by that, but I had a go at trying to sleep. Wasn't easy, what with all the noise in that bloody hospital. Could've sworn I heard pipes during the night. And drums.

And someone singing that song Raymondo used to do down the pub.

_And I shall hear, though soft you tread above me_  
_And all my grave will warmer, sweeter be_  
_For you will bend and tell me that you love me_  
_And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me._

Managed to doze off, though, even with all the noise, and have a few dreams. Mostly the same ones I'd had before.

* * *

_Christmastime. Only it didn't seem much like it, hadn't seemed for days. There was another fire, bit of a ways off from where we were, but Mam said we'd all have to leave. She took Stu by one hand - he was too big to carry - and me by the other. Only she didn't need to; I'd have stayed right by her side. Promised Dad I'd look after her and Stu while he was away._

_When we got outside in the street there was a policeman shouting, telling people to move along. Mam hurried me and Stu past him, but I looked back once or twice. He was a tall bloke, that copper. Didn't move an inch even though I'm sure he could smell the smoke, sure he knew what was coming..._

* * *

_I could hear him right behind me, but I couldn't run fast enough; my legs wouldn't let me. Any road, there wasn't anywhere left to go, except for the cupboard. I was still small enough to fit inside, and maybe Dad wouldn't look there -_

_"Come 'ere, you little bastard."_

_Felt him take hold of my shirt and pull me backwards. He jerked me round to face him, then grabbed me by the hair._

_"Don't you ever -"_

_He slammed my head against the wall, hard._

_" - turn your back - "_

_I hit the wall a second time._

_" - on me again!" _

_He shoved me backwards, and I couldn't stay on my feet, ended up on the floor. But I didn't cry. I wasn't going to let him see me cry. Knew I'd get it worse if I did that..._

* * *

_"Open the door! I'll knock it down, I will."_

_Inside the bedroom Mam was crying and praying, and pleading with Dad to stop, but he knew just where to aim his foot, and the door sprang right open soon as he kicked it.  
_

_We heard Mam scream, and I shot a look at Stu. Knew he was thinking the same thing I was: We could take the old man, the both of us. Weren't little lads anymore. And we were strong enough. _

_We were a team, Stu and I. We could take him..._

* * *

_Bastards threw one lamp into the straw, then another. Shot it for good measure. The fire was burning in earnest now, and all they had to do was wait._

_I couldn't see how Cooper was going to get out of this one, but knew he would. Always did._

_I reckon she knew that and all. Still, didn't stop her taking my hand and holding on tight while we were sitting there together in the dark. _

_Wasn't the first time she'd agreed to come out to the pictures with me, and I knew she liked Gary Cooper. _And_ westerns. Knew something else too: W__hen I took her home afterwards, she was going to let me kiss her, just before she said goodnight and went inside...  
_

* * *

_Before I went in, I stopped, looked out over the fields. No one about - no one for miles around, I reckoned - but there was someone _inside_ the house; I could hear 'em - first one crash, then another. Bloody kids._

_Right. Couldn't wait for Morrison to sober up; I'd have to sort this out on my own. I could do it, too, knew just the right spot to strike the door so it'd spring open. _

_I landed a kick, saw the door swing on its hinges, and in I went..._

* * *

I do not know what fate awaits me.

I only know I must be brave...

* * *

_It had all gone wrong, horribly wrong. Trust Tyler to bring a radio along to a sting and tip off the blaggers._

_Now the four of us were trapped inside the train, with Sam gone and the bullets flying. Bastards weren't letting up, either; they weren't going to stop till they'd killed the lot of us. Skelton was crying like a little lad, and it was all Cartwright could to do to try to calm him _and_ herself, but Ray hadn't lost his bottle and kept firing out the window. Good man. _

_Still, we were going to have to run for it, all of us, and go underground, into the darkness. Unless Tyler managed to ride back in with the cavalry. _

_We were headed towards the tunnel when I heard Ray shouting, saw him shooting back at Johns and his gang, till one of them took him out, and there was only me left to return fire. Then I felt a bullet strike me, and another.__ Chris had been hit too; from where I lay on the ground I could see Annie struggling to pull him to his feet. _

_And I saw Leslie Johns coming to finish us all off._

_"No!"  
_

_There was a shot, then another, and Johns fell to the ground.  
_

_"I told you I wouldn't leave you," said Sammy Boy.  
_

_"Oh, lucky us." But it was good to see him. Never been so glad to see someone in my life...  
_

* * *

_DI Alex Drake. Posh accent. Private education in psychobollocks. _

_And less common sense than your average grain weevil.  
_

_She'd got us into this. Didn't see how we'd get out, unless Raymondo sent in the cavalry. Till he did, we were being done to turn, Bolly and me, in a snug little underground vault. _

_Underground. I_ hated_ being underground. But I hated it worse that Bolls was starting to lose her bottle. _

_"We're not going to die. I can't die. Can I? Can I?"_

_Yes, you can._

_No, wasn't then I told her that. I'd said something else, done something else.  
_

_"Come 'ere." I put an arm round her as she leaned against me, rested her hand over my heart. Felt good, that did. And right. _

_See, Bolls might know how folk ticked, might ask the right questions, might work out the answers by herself, but when it all went wrong, she needed me. Even if she never said..._

* * *

_Right. Brought her this far. I'd done my bit, I'd kept her safe._

_Only Bolls was crying. Wasn't supposed to be this way. We were standing outside the Railway Arms in the dark together, and she was crying. Would've put a comforting arm round her but there wasn't time for that, not after that bastard interrupted us, started talking about her little girl. Should've known Jimbo would try anything to get at Bolls. And that he'd require a little punch to the jaw to sort him out._

And I must face a man who hates me  
Or lie a coward, a craven coward,  
Or lie a coward in my grave...

_Afterwards I wanted to say something to Bolly but couldn't. Wasn't time for that, not if she was meant to go. Not if I had to let her go._

_Didn't so much as lay a finger on her, either, till she leaned forward and kissed me._

_"Goodbye, Guv."_

_Could've told her to stay, that we made a good team, even that we had unfinished business. But I had to look after her, had to see her safely inside._

_"Go."_

_Stood there watching as she turned round and went into the pub. Never looked back at me. Not once. Still can remember that, and the song that Keats was singing as he staggered off into the night, and left me on my tod in the street.  
_

* * *

_Streets were deserted; everyone must've gone home. It was already dark, too, but I found my way easily enough. Sign was still the same, wasn't it - _Welcome.

_As I stood there the door opened, and the landlord stepped out. Skinny bloke. Big grin. Shirt like an explosion in a paint shop.  
_

_"Nice to see you, mon brave," he said, putting out his hand for me to shake. "Been a long time."_

_"Too right."_

_"Lot of people asking for you," he said, nodding towards the pub. "Come on through; I just put on a fresh barrel."  
_

_ "Mm."_

_"Got in some single malt too."_

_Sounded good. But I hadn't come for that._

_"She here, Nelson?"  
_

_He turned round to face me. "Yes, Guv," he said. "She's here."  
_

* * *

_Must've been early morning when I woke up. Not much light in the room. Didn't feel tired, but I was in no hurry to get out of bed, then or ever. Best sleep I'd had in ages._

_Best bed, too. I reckoned I could get used to it: big and wide, with lots of room to stretch out, and a soft white duvet over everything - well, over _me_ and, on the other side of the bed, over - _

* * *

"Mr. Hunt. Mr. Hunt."

I opened my eyes and saw it _was_ daylight already, and that there was someone standing in there the room.

And it wasn't a dream. Not this time._  
_

_To be continued..._

* * *

**A/N**: Jerahmeel ("God is merciful"): an archangel

Viv is referencing the following: _"Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends."_ John 15:13

Many thanks to the BBC for putting up the **WW2 People's War - My Wartime Memories** online, which I strongly recommend to anyone reading this.

Lyrics to "Danny Boy" are by Frederic Weatherly.

Lyrics to "The Ballad of High Noon (Do Not Forsake Me, Oh, My Darling)" were written by Ned Washington.

My (much shorter) chapter 6 is coming right up_...  
_


	6. Hang Up Your Star

Chapter 7 will follow this one pronto, Tonto, though number 8, the final chapter, may take a few days after that.**  
**

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Gene Hunt or any other **Ashes to Ashes** character. Anyone else depicted is the product of my own imagination.

* * *

**The Heart of a Lion**

**Chapter 6: Hang Up Your Star**

_The Devil, like a roaring lion, is going through the world seeking the ruin of souls. - St. Peter_

* * *

There were two of them - couple of blokes, this time - standing right beside the bed.

"Ah, you're awake. Good," said the first one. "Mr. Hunt, I am Martin Barnes, of the cardiology division." Had a posh accent, Barnes did. Not American. "I believe you already know my colleague Michael Inglis," he said, nodding at the other man.

_Barnes_. _Inglis._ I looked round and saw I was still in hospital, though the room wasn't like I remembered. Still daylight outside too, only it wasn't sunny. In fact it was pissing down rain. London rain.

And those two quacks were going on about something.

"You are quite a lucky man, Mr. Hunt," Inglis said. "Some ministering angel or other must have been looking after you."

"Yes, it's a good thing your team brought you in so promptly. You gave them quite a fright," said Barnes. "I dare say they thought you'd left us."

"They wish. Not getting rid of me so easily, are they?"

"No indeed," said Inglis. Or maybe it was Barnes. "However, I'm going to have to ask you to be serious."

"Right," I said. "Serious." _Serious as a heart attack._

"It would appear that the blockage was quite severe."

"Bit of a plumbing problem, eh?"

"I am afraid it is a bit more more than a 'plumbing problem,'" said Barnes. "Your heart sustained considerable damage, Mr. Hunt, considerable damage."

"But you can set that bastard right," I said. I didn't mean it as a question. "Put in a stint - erm, a _stent_. All be over in a jiffy."

He stared back at me, then looked over at his colleague.

"There will be, as the song goes, 'some changes made,'" said Inglis. "Marked changes. But they will take time, and mainly be down to you. We'll look, for example, at how you're eating - "

_Shit._

" - and your other habits - cigarettes, drink, exercise, or its lack -"

_Shit. Shit, shit, shit._

Tried not to pay any mind to what they were saying. And I tried not to think why I was in hospital at all - in hospital in London.

But I was meant to be in London, though, wasn't I, not bloody Washington. Only I kept thinking of Marty. One of New York's Finest. It hadn't been real, any of it, the pub and the coppers' memorial, and Dr. Engel and his plans to set my heart right. I had no telephone number for a Martin Byrne in New York. Didn't hear that girl playing the fiddle outside the underground, either. Or see the lion in that church. I'd dreamt the lot while I was flat on my back. Didn't know what was the truth or a lie, not anymore.

But I _did_ know if those two pillocks didn't stop going on about what I could and couldn't do I'd hang the both of 'em out the window by their -

" - that this must needs affect your duties with the Metropolitan Police."

_No, wait. What?_

"We'll make a full evaluation of your condition, of course, prior to your release from hospital, and forward it to your superintendent, that he might make an informed decision once you've completed your convalescence at home."

_Shit._

"I should think a reassignment would be in order, or, at the very least, delegating more responsibilities to - "

Might as well have punched me in the chest _and_ the stomach, that bloke. I didn't hear another word he said, whichever one of them he was.

So that was it, then. They were going to put me behind a desk. Leave me to sit on my arse and twiddle my thumbs all day. Gene Hunt, well and truly ready for the knacker's yard.

End of.

* * *

After a bit Doom and Gloom left me on my tod. Got tired of the sound of their own voices, I reckon.

Some time later Terry and Poirot popped in to find out how I was getting on. Been feeling miserable as sin, and it was good to see the both of them.

Of course they'd been the ones who'd got me there; I remembered that now. The night before we'd come up the stairs from that Italian place - Figaro's, they call it - where we all go for spag bol and plonk, and gone over the road to Fenchurch East. Holbrooke had called - got a tip on the Graham investigation, _finally_ - and we were in the sweet spot, all of us.

I was about to fire up the Mercedes, had the keys in my hand, when I felt the pain in my chest and shooting right up my arm. Next thing I knew, I was riding shotgun while Terry drove like a madman to hospital and Poirot kept saying, "Stay with us, Guv. Stay with us."_  
_

They'd come back to cheer me up a bit, _and_ bring me up to speed on the investigation. Holbrooke was conducting interviews, Terry said, and had the new lad sitting in - Boyle or Goyal, whatever he was called. Bit of a twonk, but Holbrooke would look after him till I got back to Fenchurch East. My kingdom.

Only it might not be anymore.

Still, didn't need to tell Terry and Poirot that just yet. The three of us had settled in and got to work mapping out the crime scene - using a packet of fags, a book of matches, Terry's watch, and the bed covers - when a nurse came in, a young one, but twice around the gasworks. Her hair was all frizzed, and that reminded me of something, but I couldn't think what till I remembered how Bolly had looked when I first knew her.

This bird was a blonde, though, and a big enough girl to make an extra Bolly or two.

"Okay, guys," she said to Terry and Poirot. "Keg party's over. I'll take it from here." She had an American accent.

"God 'elp us all, another Yankee," I said as she came over to me and started fiddling with my arm.

"Mets fan, actually," said the blonde, grinning at me._  
_

"Give over, Guv, " said Poirot, who was clearing cigarettes off the covers. "She's all right."

"Thanks." She smiled at him too - made the silly bugger go all red - then finished whatever she was doing with my arm and laid it back down on the bed.

"You comfortable, Mr. Hunt?"

"Mm, not bad."

"Yeah, _right_," she said, then turned to Terry and Poirot. "I meant it, guys. Visiting hours are over.

"Say goodbye to your boss." Her voice sounded different then. Not so rough as it had done.

Terry moved to the side of the bed, stuck out his hand for me to shake. Never knew he had such a firm grip.

"Goodbye, Guv."

"'Night, mate."

Terry stepped back to give Poirot enough room.

"Be seeing you, Guv."

"Yeah. In a few days and all." I shook his hand too.

He didn't move from the spot, though, and Terry was standing there like a statue, so I said, "Right. 'ave one for me, will you?"

"Will do, Guv. Good night, then."

"Good night, Guv."

"I'll just walk Toody and Muldoon here down the hall, then check in on you again," said the nurse. "Don't go anywhere, okay?" She winked at me.

"Not a bloody chance."

I watched her go out of the room with Terry and Poirot. Didn't much like the way they all lowered their voices soon as they got past the door - like they knew I was listening.

* * *

My head was beginning to hurt again, so I shut my eyes, thought I might get some kip. That's why I heard him whistling before I saw him.

I knew the tune, too - "We'll Meet Again."

"Don't bother getting up, Hunt. I don't stand on ceremony, and neither do you. And you probably can't stand up anyway now, can you?"

The bastard was at my bloody elbow before I knew it. Looked just the same, too - raincoat and glasses and all.

"On your own, I see," Keats said. "Just another lone wolf. Or maybe it's the Lone Ranger." He sniggered, and started whistling again - something I knew but couldn't put a name to. Hadn't heard it since I was a lad.

"The Manc Lion goes down into the pit. A sight I've always dreamt of seeing. But then we all dream such strange things, don't we, Hunt?"

The pain in my chest was back, felt like a hand squeezing my heart, and it was getting hard to breathe. Sounded like I was making a lot of noise, but Keats just stood there, looking down at me.

Then he began to remove his gloves. Slowly.

"YOU! Out of my ward!"

That blonde nurse came barreling through the door and set herself between me and Keats. She wasn't a tall girl, but she was solid.

"I'll have your job for that," said Keats quietly.

"I don't think so." She picked up my arm again, like she was going to take my pulse or stick me with a needle, but this time she only grabbed my hand and held on tight. I was burning up, my chest hurt like a bastard, but I still noticed when she took my hand. And I gripped hers with all my might.

"I am this man's superior officer," Keats was saying.

"I don't give a rat's ass who you are. This is the cardiology wing. Out. Move it."

He didn't shift himself an inch. "What's your name?"

"Celeste."

"Your full name."

"You wouldn't be able to pronounce it, _or_ spell it."

"Now see here -"

"Problem, Celeste?" A bloke was standing in the doorway of the room. Deep voice. Big round head with the hair cropped close.

Body huge and hulking enough to make Keats shit himself.

The nurse gave the porter a smile. "I was just telling - I'm sorry; I didn't catch your name," she said, looking back at Jimbo.

"Keats," he said, cold as charity. "Detective Chief Inspector Keats."

"Uh-huh." Celeste turned back to the bloke in the doorway. "I was just telling this officious asshole where to go. Escort him out, would you, Mikhail. Visiting hours are definitely over."

"Visiting hours _are_ over, sir," said Mikhail in a heavy foreign accent. "Now you come this way."

Keats's head spun round like something out of **The Exorcist**. First he looked at Celeste, then at the porter in the doorway, and then finally back at me.

"I'll see you in the morning, Hunt."

_Not if I see you first._

"Goodbye, Jimbo."

* * *

"I'm sorry, Mr. Hunt. I thought no one else was on the floor."

"Is he gone?"

"Oh, yeah, he's history," said Celeste. "He was hard to get rid of, though. I almost had to use my patented groin therapy."

"Groin therapy?"

"As in knee to the," she said, grinning. "How are you doing?"

"Pain - in pain."

"Where?"

"Me chest - squeezing, like before - and me 'ead, right where - right where - "

"Where they shot you."

_Oh, God._

"It's all right." Her voice was kind. Hadn't noticed that before."It's going to be all right."

"Doesn't feel that way."

"It will be. I promise." She took hold of my hand again.

"This is - this is - I'm - "

She nodded at me, almost smiled. "Time to hang up your star, Will Kane."

Managed to snort, even if I could barely breathe. "Lot of bollocks, that."

"No, it isn't," she said, squeezing my hand. "You had a hard job, and you loved it. You were the law."

"Went in alone," I told her. "Nobody for backup. Thought I knew it all. Didn't have a clue, not a bloody clue."

"No one does," she said. "You just show up and do what you have to do. Go where you're needed."

Had to smile at that; I'd said the same to Bolly once. Still, I remembered what she'd told me, last time I saw her.

_You can't do this - you can't do this on your own. You need me, Gene._

"Alone - don't want to be alone."

"You won't be," said Celeste.

"No, Keats said - Keats said all alone. No one to care."

"Yeah. Well, Keats is full of it," she said, smiling at me. "They're all going to be there."

"All - "

"Your team. All of them."

I noticed then that the room had gone quiet, and the lights had got brighter, so bright I could barely see that nurse, just hear her voice and feel her hand on my forehead. Which didn't hurt anymore.

"You know, there are a lot of cops like you," she was saying.

"I know, I know, I know." All those names. So many names.

Then she smiled at me; I could still see that. "But there's only one Gene Hunt. And you are and always will be the guv."

_You are and always will be the guv._ Had to smile at that too. Still, I had one more thing to ask her. Just the one.

"Terry and Poirot, Holbrooke, the new lad, they can't -"

_"Yes, they can,_" she said. "They're going to be fine.

"Don't worry, big guy."

That was the last thing I heard before I closed my eyes.

_To be continued…_

* * *

**A/N**: "There'll Be Some Changes Made" was written by Billy Higgins and W. Benton Overstreet.

"We'll Meet Again" was written by Ross Parker and Hughie Charles.


	7. Now I've Come Back Again

Disclaimer: I don't own the **Ashes to Ashes** characters or plots, though I have employed a few bits of dialogue from the actual series in this last chapter.

One more installment, already written, follows this one.

Many thanks to those of you who have taken the time to post your comments, reactions, and theories, and to all other readers, feel free to post reviews, even for stories and chapters that have been up for a while.

* * *

**The Heart of a Lion**

**Chapter 7: Now I've Come Back Again**

_Heaven would have a job to hold me; and as for Hell, I'd break it into bits._

_- _**A Grief Observed, by C.S. Lewis**

* * *

Can't say what it was woke me up, only that it happened all of a sudden. Like I was on a train that had come to a stop.

Found meself outside, with my back resting against stone, legs stretched out in front of me. It was still dark out – or maybe just gone dark; can't say which – and the streetlamps were on; I could see the light reflecting off my boots.

_Boots._

I was out of the hospital gear, then, and wearing boots and a proper suit. Out of that bed, too, in Washington - no, _London_ - and back on the street, or at least sleeping outdoors again, couldn't say where. Turning into a bit of a habit, that was.

And I was on my tod - no Terry, no Poirot, no Keats, and no nurse.

In fact the last thing I remembered was that nurse - the way she'd talked to me, and put her hand on my forehead. My head had hurt like a bastard, and my chest and all, but that was done with now. Felt like I could breathe properly for the first time in years too.

I reckoned I'd have a cigarette to celebrate all that, and found the packet of fags in my pocket, right where they should be. I'd just taken a long, satisfying pull at one when I heard a noise - something hitting the pavement.

A football came flying out of nowhere and knocked the cigarette right from my hand. Didn't burn me, though. Didn't even hurt.

"Sorry, Guv!"

_Guv_? I got to my feet and squinted at the darkness. There was a patch of white out there, moving towards me, and as I watched it turned into a t-shirt, with Viv James inside. He had on his uniform trousers and a pair of trainers, and that pure white t-shirt.

And he looked fit and well.

"What are you doing smoking anyway?" he said. "Thought you might at least give it up here."

"This is 'eaven. I can do what I want."_ Shit. Viv._ "I mean, I thought - this isn't -"

Never expected I'd see Viv smiling again. "No worries, Guv," he told me. "They've sent you to the right place."

"They'd better 'ave. You bloody near gave me an 'eart attack." Didn't feel that way, though.

"I've only just got here myself."

_Only just got here._ I took a deep breath. "Yeah. Well, it's good to see you, Skip."

"And you, Guv."

"If you don't me asking, how did you - "

"I had help, didn't I." Viv took a seat next to me, grunting just like Marty Byrne as he lowered himself down. As though he'd aged. Or been sitting hunched up for a long time.

"Keats had told me I was alone."

"Keats," I said, "is a lying bastard. He said the same to me and all."

"Yeah, but you were different, Guv."

"Yeah, reckon I was," I said, taking out another cigarette.

"I _was_ on my own, for a while," said Skip. "Caroline Price changed all that."

"Caroline Price?"

"The solicitor. You remember her, Guv."

I almost dropped the fag. I _did_ remember. Famous lefty lawyer. Hadn't thought about her in God knew how long.

"Made Keats' life a living hell, she did. I mean -"

"Yeah, yeah." In point of fact, I could believe she had. "Go on, Skip."

"She took on my case, only she was up against her old man, Tim Price, and Keats of course. Then her daughter got the coppers involved, like she'd done with her mum."

I remembered something else then - me carrying a little girl into Fenchurch East. "Blimey, her daughter's here?" Poor kid.

"Tim was more than a match for them, though," said Viv. "Kept things going for years."

_For years._ "Still, you won."

"In the end, yeah, but it wasn't how I thought it would be. Always thought if anyone turned up, it'd be you."

"Couldn't have done, not when I was flat on me back. Who'd they send?"

"Strangest thing, Guv. I heard someone call my name, and there was this copper. Few blokes from the fire brigade had fought their way in, and he came along. Never seen him before, or them. Didn't recognize the uniform, either. Not one of ours; that was certain."

_Not one of ours_. "Did 'e 'ave an American accent?"

"Yeah, sounded like that Pacino bloke," said Viv. "How did you know?"

"Lucky guess. What'd 'e say?"

Skip grinned. "First thing he did was turn the air blue. Can't remember it all, but he was in a right old state. Said Keats had got the transfer bollixed up - well, not 'bollixed,' that's not quite how he put it. But he told him, 'You've got one of _our _guys down here.'

"Then he clapped a hand on my shoulder, said I should come with him, 'on the double.' Of course Keats wasn't having that. Didn't show he was angry, though. Just told that copper he could send him back to anywhere he liked, even the autumn of 1945. I don't know what that was all about.

"Took him a minute, but the bloke brushed him off. Well, not brushed. More like, erm, _kneed_."

I felt myself start to smile. "Good man."

"Then the copper turned to me and said, 'Come on, buddy, we ain't got all night.'"

"And that was that."

"Well, he did say, 'Move along, people. Nothing to see here.'

"We went up to the street then, the lot of us. Those lads from the fire brigade went off to join their mates and left me alone with that bloke.

"I asked him why he'd come. 'You guys never gave in,' he told me. 'They bombed the hell out of you and you never gave in. Damnedest thing I've ever seen.' He shook his head, couldn't speak for a moment. Then he grinned at me and said, 'Besides, I wanted to show my son the old man's still got it...'"

I thought back. _A copper's copper...would have gone through hell for any of them._

"...he wouldn't come this far with me, though. Said his buddies were waiting for him, and 'some limey bastard' would see me the rest of the way."

"And then you found me."

"Yeah." Viv looked at the ground. "Guv, I never - I mean, that day - "

_That day._ No need to ask which one.

"I'm sorry, Guv. I'm sorry. I should have - "

"I let you down, Viv."

"How do you reckon that?"

"You tried to talk to me. I wouldn't listen."_ Blimey. Are you here for confession?_ "What happened was my fault."

"No, Guv, it was mine - "

"Should 'ave 'ad your back, Skip," I said. "My fault. End of. Keats was right about that."

Viv turned to look at me. "I thought you said Keats was a lying bastard."

"Yeah," I said, chuckling for the first time. "Yeah, 'e is and all."

I clapped a hand on Viv's shoulder.

"Come on, Skip. Time to go 'ome."

* * *

In the end it was the sign that helped me get my bearings. I'd seen it a million bloody times.

_Welcome._

But as we got nearer the Railway Arms Viv was dragging his feet.

"Guv - "

"Yeah, Skip." I knew what was coming next.

" - they're going to let me in, aren't they?"

I turned to face him and saw the look in his eyes - Keats' doing again. Jimbo dealt in doubt and despair the way scum like Layton dealt in heroin.

Only one way to sort it, though. "That Yank bastard didn't get your miserable arse out of 'ell so I could leave you standing outside the Railway Arms till the end of time, did 'e now?"

"No, Guv."

"Right. Let's finish the job, and 'ave one for 'im and all.

"In we go. Bold as a lion now, Skip."

But we didn't need to do anything in the end, either of us. Right as we were standing there, the door of the Railway Arms opened, as if on its own.

* * *

_Of course_ it didn't bloody open on its own. Nelson stepped out, grinning the way he always did. "Welcome, Sergeant James!" he said, reaching out to shake Viv's hand. "Nice to see you."

"Oi! Nelson!" Ray Carling came barreling through the door. "Thought you were going to give me the signal soon as the - "

He spotted Viv then and stopped in his tracks. Shit. Going to be bloody awkward, this was.

Only Raymondo looked like he was about to mist up. "Skip, is it really you?"

"Yeah, it's really me." Viv looked down at the pavement. "How are you keeping, Ray?"

"How do you think, you daft bugger!" said Ray. He threw his arms round Viv then and held on, eyes shut tight. Thought for a moment he was going to blub, but he got himself sorted soon enough, slapped Skip on the back a couple times, pulled away and said the only sensible thing.

"Now, how about a pint?" Then he clapped eyes on me. "Flaming Nora. It is true, then?"

"What's true, Raymondo?"

"We've been expecting you, mon brave," said Nelson. "Guv's here," he called back to the punters.

The doorway filled up, then bloody well exploded, with people I hadn't seen in years: Sam Tyler was the first one out, but Annie Cartwright was right behind him, and Chris Skelton and Shazzer.

"Guv." Tyler had his hands on my shoulders, big daft grin on his face, tears in his eyes. He leaned forward and put his arms about me, slapped me on the back. "Good to see you," was all I heard him say, what with all the laughing and the sniffling.

"Danger of getting poofy there, Sammy Boy." But it _was_ good to see him and all.

Then Annie nipped forward and gave me a little kiss on the cheek, and it all turned into a scrum, only with birds in it - everybody crowding round, shaking my hand and Viv's, and talking all at once.

But DI Drake was AWOL.

Right. No Bolls. _Welcome to heaven, Detective Chief Inspector Hunt -_

"There isn't any car, not this time, but there _are_ those boots...and you. "

* * *

_To be continued..._


	8. I Know This Much Is True

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the **Ashes to Ashes** characters or scripts, though I've borrowed the former and quoted _liberally_ from the latter.

This chapter was written quite some time back, even before THOAL's midpoint installments were completed, but with the nagging sense that I still hadn't done the guv justice. Multiple rewrites and a few visits from the Rat of Despair later, here's the final version, ready for your reactions and reviews. Oh, and Siggy, I wrote a certain scene well before No. 36 of your "Rumours of Angels" appeared. Great minds with but a single thought.

**Recap**: After a journey that's taken him from Fenchurch East to Washington, D.C., to the door of the Railway Arms, DCI Gene Hunt achieves that much-anticipated reunion with his fellow armed bastards, and _maybe_ someone who's been haunting his dreams...

* * *

**The Heart of a Lion**

**Chapter 8: I Know This Much Is True**

Dear God, that voice. Couldn't bear listening to it on those tapes, but now -

Alex squeezed past Raymondo - not that he seemed to mind - and staggered into the light. I thought for a moment she was going to tumble over on those high heels, but she got her balance and stood there, feet wide apart. Looked good, but then she always had done. Especially when she was smiling at me. Which she was.

"'ello, Alex." That's all I could say to her with that lot from the Railway Arms staring at us. And the look she was giving me.

"_Gene Hunt - _"

"Remember my name, then, do you, Inspector?"

"More than that, Mr. Hunt, more than - "

She clapped eyes on Skip then, and gasped. "Viv!"

"Ma'am." He nodded and smiled at Bolly, but she just stood there staring, not saying a word.

"I'm sorry," she said finally. "I didn't know. I - welcome." She took hold of both his hands, held on tight for a moment. "Welcome, Viv." Then I heard her sob and saw her put her arms about him. Did Skip a world of good, I reckon. Still, she was hanging on too bloody long.

I cleared my throat. "If you've _quite_ finished, DI Drake."

Alex let go of Viv and turned round to face me. "I'm sorry. I thought you were - I mean, I thought - then it's not true?" She didn't say it loudly, but everyone seemed to hear and stopped talking straightaway.

And right about then Bolls started with the tears.

"Move along, people. Nothing to see here," announced Ray, pushing at shoulders, herding folk back into the Railway Arms.

"Coming in now, Guv?" asked Skelton, who was still standing about. Like he reckoned it was a good time for a chat. But Shazzer just gave me a look, then grabbed Christopher by the arm and dragged him off into the pub.

By then Ray and Nelson had got the rest of that lot back inside, leaving me alone with Alex, who was well and truly crying. Bloody dream had come true, or near enough to it.

"Come 'ere, Bolls," I said, and for once she didn't give me an argument. Even let me put a comforting arm round her - two of 'em, actually.

"Now then, Bollykecks, it's not that bad," I said, but she was too busy blubbing all over my jacket to pay any mind. "It'll be like old times - you and me, a table, bottle of house rubbish."

"No - _what_?" She raised her head from my shoulder. "But Viv - you're here to bring Viv - "

"'Don't know about that, Bolly. Was about to 'ead for the pub meself when Skip turned up. Nearly gave me an 'eart attack."

Her eyes misted over again. "Yes. Well, he had a long way to come.

"And you. _You_ had a long way to come."

"Hm. Don't know the 'alf of it, Bolly."

"Maybe. Maybe not." She almost smiled but wouldn't look me in the eye. "But we've all come a long way.

"So tell me," she said, with both her hands on my chest. "Is it true? Is it really true?"

"What's true?"

"That you're staying."

"Of course I'm staying, you dozy mare!"

Hoped that would get another smile out of her, but Bolls always did have to analyze everything. You could almost see the cogs turning inside her brain.

"Not for one night," she whispered. "Forever."

"'fraid so, Bolly. Sheriff's back in town."

"Yes," she said, giving me that smile. "Yes, you are." She put her hand up to the side of my face, then leaned in close.

"Hello, Guv."

Tasted like wine, and not the house rubbish.

* * *

Felt good too - every inch of her.

"Bolls."

"Mm."

"You can use my Christian name now. Considering where I've got my 'and."

It'd been a long time since I'd heard Bolly laugh.

"Well," she said, leaning back for another good look at me. "It's a start."

Sounded like I was on a promise. No more unfinished business. No more -

"You smiled then too," Alex was saying.

"When?" I mumbled. And stopped her from answering me. I'd waited long enough for this, dreamed about it -

"Last time I saw you," she said, soon as she could draw breath. She ran her thumb along my lower lip. "Do you know, I'd hardly ever seen you smile."

"Didn't have the chance." We'd been too busy clearing the streets of scum, Bolls and I.

"But you _did_ smile, right before you - right before you said, 'Go.' One word, just the one," she said, looking down, stroking my chest. "And yet it hurt so much.

"I think it took every bit of strength I had not to turn around and look at you again. Especially when I could feel your eyes on me.

"But I kept walking. I had to get that door open before I could look back at you one last time. And there was _always_ a last time; I knew that. I'd known it since I was a little girl.

"I'd learnt something else too: Even the second chances didn't last forever. I'd still lose everyone I loved," she whispered. "Everyone I ever loved.

"And there it was, happening again. I'd almost lost Molly once before, you know, when she was little, and I'd have to lose her after all - "

I tightened my arms round Alex. "I know, love. I know."

" - and you. Only it wasn't true."

_What wasn't true, Bolls?_ _That you never_ _-_

"I'll see Molly again; I know that now. And _you_ - well, you're here, aren't you?"

"I bloody am, so stop turning on the waterworks, woman. Beginning to think you're not glad to see me."

Alex smiled and sniffed almost at the same time. "Oh, I don't think there's any doubt about _that._"

"'Course not, Bolls. A bird's never 'appy till she's got something to cry about, is she?"

Her eyes went narrow. "Do you know something? Even here, even now, with all eternity staring us in the face, you're still the most difficult - "

She stopped talking long enough to give me a kiss.

"- stubborn -"

Same again.

" - _obnoxious_ -"

And another.

" - misogynistic, and reckless human being I've ever known. And rather missed." She stroked the side of my face and whispered, "No, not 'rather.' I've missed you so much. Even here."

Looked like she was about to start with the tears again, so I said, "Yeah. Yeah, and you, Bolly."

"'Yeah and you, Bolls' what?" she said, giving me another smile.

"Spent three years in my kingdom, Bollykecks. Enough time for me to get used to a posh bird like you." Hadn't been the same afterwards, either, hadn't been a day when I didn't wish she would -

"Oh, God, give me strength."

I couldn't tell by the look on her face if she was about to punch me or kiss me. Or maybe start crying again. But then she surprised me. Bolls always surprises me.

"Come on, let's have a drink. A _very_ big one. You're here now; that's all that matters. And it's not as though we'll never have time to talk, will we?"

"Didn't come here to _talk_, Bollyknickers."

"No?" she said, cocking her head.

"_No_."

First thing I'd thought when I first clapped eyes on her was that she needed a good seeing-to. Still did. I'd turned down our first chance, Bolly had turned down the second - and maybe the third, fourth, and fifth ones too; I'd lost count - but there wasn't anything to stop us anymore, and if she kept looking at me that way I was going to have her right there, up against the side of the pub, soon as -

"Oh_, shit_."

Bolls and I stopped in mid-snog and turned our heads towards the door of the Railway Arms.

Ray was standing there, red as a tomato. "Sorry, Guv," he said, looking at the ground. "Thought you might need backup."

"_What_?"

He shrugged. "Bastard might've followed you and Viv."

Bloody Keats wasn't even there and he'd found a way to interrupt me and Bolls. Wouldn't do it again, though. Never again.

"Nah, that's sorted," I told Ray. "No worries."

"Good." He still wouldn't look me in the eye. "You coming in, then?"

"Keep your 'air on, Raymondo!"

"Right. See you in a minute, Guv. And you, Boss. Ma'am." He turned round and went back into the pub.

Soon as he'd shut the door behind him, Bolly started to giggle. "Dear Ray.

"Well," she said, "I suppose it's time we faced the music."

"Yeah."

"Then again..."

She stood there smoothing my collar, straightening my tie. Giving me that smile of hers, and that look. And we _were_ properly alone, or at least would be until Skelton took it into his head to come back outside.

Assuming Shazzer didn't stop him.

* * *

Can't say how long Bolly and I were out there, but it was more than a minute. Long enough to make a start putting things right between us.

"Now then, Bollinger Knickers, what's that you said about a drink?"

"Come on." She took my arm, started to lead me towards the pub, but just before we got to the entrance, I stopped her one last time.

"Alex - "

She turned to look at me.

"I know."

* * *

We went through the doorway then, Bolly and I. Nelson had put on the record by by that Bowie bloke, same as always. Don't know why he does that.

I thought we were never going to reach the bar, with all the people stopping me to shake my hand, even kiss me - Shaz and Annie already had, of course, but then Phyllis did the same and all. _Phyllis Bloody Dobbs_. Don't think Alex minded, though, and besides _she_ was right next to me, always beside me. Like old times.

Then Caroline Price came up to us - I reckoned she hadn't spent much time in pubs; must've come for Skip's sake - and she shook my hand and said something over all the noise. I couldn't hear anything but the name _Alex_. Then I saw her smile at Bolly, who squeezed her hand and looked like she was ready to start blubbing again. Women. Completely baffling, even here.

Finally Bolls and I got ourselves a table, and people started coming over to bring me pints, and steak and chips. Alex rolled her eyes at the sight of it, but didn't say a word as I scoffed it all down. Best I'd ever had, and my first proper meal since that fry-up. The hospital grub didn't count.

After that we settled in, with everyone gathered round - Tyler and Cartwright, Carling, Granger and Skelton, of course, but Harry Woolf too, and even Litton, plus a few lads who'd joined the GLC when I had.

Might've been sitting there for a few minutes - or maybe hours; can't rightly say - when I noticed the record that was playing. Some American bird with a rough voice. I could just make out the words.

_Because the night belongs to lovers,_

_Because the night belongs to us..._

And I reckoned then was as a good time as any to make my move.

"So, Bolls, why don't you and I -"

But when I looked round, she was gone.

* * *

Couldn't have got far, though. Place wasn't that big. With any luck, I'd find her camped out at a table with Cartwright and Granger, drinking wine and talking psychiatry bollocks.

But Annie hadn't stirred from what I reckoned was her usual spot next to Sam, and Shazzer was sitting on Chris's knee. Young love. God help us all.

Left that soppy lot to it and started across the room to investigate the most obvious place. Bolls would be leaned up against the bar, I was sure of it, and in just a tick I'd clap eyes on her - firm, supple, with a peachy ripeness that was just begging for a good old -

But from where I stood I couldn't see Bolly or much else of anything else; there were more coppers in the place than I'd counted on, and they weren't exactly parting like the Red Sea. Half the blokes recognized me too, as I walked through the room, and wanted to get me a pint. By the time I reached the bar there was no sign at all of Alex, and nobody waiting there but a couple of the lads from London, and that Irish copper, who raised his whiskey glass and nodded at me. Couldn't stop for another drink, though, and I wasn't about to ask him if he'd seen Bolls. No, if anyone could sort this out, it was Nelson, only there was no sign of him either.

I went past the bar, left the lads to their pints and chasers, and found the doorway I wanted.

"Oi! Nelson!"

No answer. But I could hear voices coming from inside.

* * *

_Of course_ I heard voices; Nelson had left the television on, to a program about another boozer. I could see beer and whiskey glasses everywhere, and almost as many blokes as you'd find at a football match, the lot of them singing at the tops of their voices.

_And it's no, nay, never_

With that everyone pounded the tables till the _telly_ started shaking.

_No, nay, never no more_

_Will I play the wild rover._

_No, never no more._

Blimey, they were all coppers - and their missuses; I recognized that blonde sitting over at one of the tables. She must've known I was watching, because I saw her smile, then nudge the bloke next to her. Knew him too: a copper who'd got all those scars on the streets of the city. His city.

"Gene! Gene, what are you doing in there?" he said, grinning. "Bar's _that_ way!"

"Oh, stop," said Barbara, pushing at his shoulder. "What he means is, we both know who you're looking for."

"What?"

"We've seen her now, Gene, and she's lovely. I think she was even waiting for you - correction: _is_ waiting for you."

"You heard the boss," said Marty. "Get back out there. But hey, no pressure - "

"You need something, mon brave?"

The telly had switched itself off, and Nelson was standing there, bottle of whisky in one hand, vodka in the other. "Something to drink?"

"Erm, not just now."

Nelson gave me a funny look, then shrugged his shoulders. "Suit yourself, Guv," he said, making for the door. Then he turned round, grinned. "Only I got single malt. You just say the word."

"Will do." I followed him out the door - and spotted Bolly standing on the other side of the room.

She had her back to me, but I knew it was her. She'd put on a white frock, cut low enough to show off that back, high enough for me to get a proper look at those legs. Almost all the way to her stocking tops.

"Nelson."

"Yes, mon brave."

"Changed my mind about that drink."

"Single malt?"

"Single malt. And you got anything fit to serve a lady?" _Don't you bloody say port and lemon._

Nelson looked across the room, then back at me. "A nice sauvignon blanc?" he said. "DI Drake's favorite."

I knew that; she'd told me once.

"Hm. Might do. Only I was thinking of something special. Something she 'asn't 'ad in a while."

Nelson grinned. "Something special. Yeah, I reckon I can manage that."

"Good man. Saloon bar. Five minutes."

"Coming right up, Guv."

Right, that was sorted. Now all I had to do was pry Bolls away from Caroline Price.

* * *

I had no idea at all what Alex would be talking about with the most brilliant barrister in the Railway Arms - _only_ barrister in the Railway Arms, I reckon - but they were going on the way birds do. Then I saw Caroline take Bolly's face in her hands. _Fandabydozy._ I turn my back for a minute and those two start.

I was on my way over there when Caroline Price spotted me - and smiled. Bolls turned round, saw me coming, and then things got very bloody strange indeed: Alex was hugging Caroline, and I saw her stroking Bolly's hair - which she'd changed again; I'd noticed that earlier - but I didn't get there fast enough to hear what they were saying to each other.

By then they'd broken apart, and Caroline was standing there smiling again, bold as brass, while Bolls had gone a nice deep shade of red. Hadn't thought there was anything could make her blush. Not even the Gene Genie.

But she looked even better from the front, wearing that posh white silk - not too much of it, and it fitted her in all the right places - and her hair loose, and a bit less warpaint than she used to. Before I snogged her.

"Well, I see your sergeant's glass is almost empty," Caroline Price was saying. "And I could use a touch of pinot noir myself." She gave me another smile, and squeezed Bolly's hand before heading over to the bar.

Soon as she'd got out of earshot, I said to Alex, "So, Bolls, is it like this every night?"

"Is what like this every night? The noise level?"

"Yeah - no." It was bloody noisy, but I wasn't bothered about that. "I mean you. Looking like that."

"No," she said, her eyes misting over again. "No, tonight is special."

"Got plans, then, Bollyknickers?"

"Quite a few, actually," she said, looking right at my mouth, then back into my eyes.

"Mm. Time for a drink first?"

"Of course. We've got nothing but time, Gene."

"Best make a start, then." I put my hand low on her back, just above her arse, and gave her a bit of a nudge in the direction of the saloon bar. Felt Bolly quiver soon as I touched her, and then she was looking back over her shoulder and smiling at me.

You've either got it, my friend, or you haven't.

We found ourselves a table and had just time enough to settle in before Nelson came over with our drinks: scotch for me, something girly for Alex.

I picked up my glass. "You and me, Bolly," I said, clinking it against Alex's. "You and me."

"Forever and a day," she said, and took a sip of that cocktail Nelson had made for her.

"That's red as a baboon's arse, that is."

"It's called a cosmopolitan," said Alex. She looked over at my glass of single malt and smiled. "And you're drinking whisky."

"See, that's us, Bolly," I said. "Posh totty and a bit of rough."

"Uptown girl, downtown man."

"Southern lass, northern lad."

"Woman in white, man in black. Gene...Gene, I'm sorry."

"What about?"_ Don't you dare, Bolls. Don't say this is a mistake._

"I'm sorry I left."

I relaxed and had another mouthful of whisky. "Told you to go, Bolly," I said, shrugging. "And you listened for once."

"No, not that," she said, tracing the rim of her glass with one finger. "I meant the night before."

Oh. _That_ night.

"I'm sorry, Gene. Sorry that I left you alone."

"Are you, Bolls?"

"Yeah," she nodded. "You know what they say: 'Woulda, coulda, shoulda,'" she said, running her fingers up and down the stem of her glass. "What might have been. So many regrets.

"Of course I can never make it up to you -"

"Yes, you can."

Made her blush again, but she smiled at me. "Well, I thought if we can never have that particular night back, maybe we can have something better."

"Hang about. You mean these plans you've got for this evening -"

"They involve you, yes."

"And this is you apologizing." Wasn't a question.

"If you mean the dress, the stockings, the flirting, yes," she said. "Yes, it is."

"Blimey, Bolls, if this is how you apologize, we ought to fight more often." Every day, in fact_._

"Mind you, could be a big job," I added, looking her straight in the eye.

She smiled. "Well, I'm up to the challenge."

"Oh, so am I, Bolls. So am I." Had been since I'd seen her - the _first_ time, mind you, the very first time.

"And I'll tell you another thing," said Alex. "I'm not distractable anymore. Now I finish what I start."

"Is that right?"

She nodded, took another sip of her drink, and licked her lips. "I like to see things through - to a satisfying outcome.

"And Gene -"

"Yeah, Bolls."

" - I'm not going anywhere, ever. I'll be here. If you want me."

_If _I wanted her? Of course I wanted her. Always had. Always will.

"Get your coat, then, Bollykecks," I said in a low voice, softly as I could. "You've - "

"Ma'am! Guv!"

I looked up and saw Viv coming across the room towards us, full steam ahead.

"Bad timing, Skip." Worst timing ever.

"I only just heard," he went on, like I hadn't said anything. "And I've got to say - "

"Going to have to wait, Skip." _Till tomorrow. Or maybe a week from now. Month, probably. Or forever._

Alex was nodding at him - just slightly, just so I could see - but smiling a bit too, and Viv smiled back at her, smiled as I never thought I'd see him do again.

"Right. Sorry, Guv. Of course it can wait."

"All right, then."

"See you later, Guv. Ma'am."

"Okay, Bolls. Out with it," I said when Viv had gone. "What's the secret?"

"Secret? There are no secrets here, Gene."

"There's something you 'aven't told me, though, isn't there?"

"It can wait," said Alex, picking up her glass. "It can definitely wait."

"Yeah. Well, I can't anymore," I said. "Is there somewhere we can go and not be interrupted every bloody minute?"

"We could pop up to my place."

"What? Like your flat above that Italian restaurant?"

"Oh, it's _much_ nicer than that," she said. "This is heaven, remember?"

* * *

Mind you, we still had to fight our way through the crowd again to reach the stairs. And it was noisy in the Railway Arms, what with the record playing: another American bird with a hard, raspy voice.

_Just take it! Take another little piece of my heart now, baby!_

Must have been someone from CID who put it on, because Raymondo, Shazzer, and Annie were singing along, and Chris was thrashing about, pretending to play the electric guitar, while Sam just sat there grinning in that way he has.

At the next table Phyllis had her port and lemon, her ciggy, and a bit of a laugh with Viv - birds of a feather and all, _and_ Skip looked more and more like his old self.

I spotted Caroline Price, too, going on about something to that Irish copper. Must've prised him off the bar while we weren't looking.

Any road, Alex and I left the lot of them to it, and kept moving towards the stairs.

"Oi, Nelson! Got any Herb Alpert?" I called out as we passed the bar.

"Of course. Whatever you like, mon brave."

"Although, under the circumstances, 'Deh vieni, non tardar' from **The Marriage of Figaro** would be _much_ more appropriate," said Alex. I didn't have a clue what she was on about, but anything that put Bolls in the mood was all right with me.

Nelson was grinning back at her. "You like opera, Boss?"

"I love it!"

"Got that too, any version you want. Sit down, stay a while," he said, jerking his head in the direction of the saloon bar. "It's a nice long one."

"Uh, Bolls - "

"On second thought," said Alex quickly, "maybe later."

"Yeah. Not tonight, mate," I said to Nelson. "But let's have a bottle of Bollinger."

"Knickers optional," added Bolly, leaning against me.

Don't know if Nelson heard her - didn't look like it; he just passed the champagne to me, and two glasses to Alex - but even if he had I wasn't going to hang about for explanations.

_Move along, people. Nothing to see here._

Right. One hand on the bottle, the other on Bolly. Up the stairs, two at a time. Could have made it three, the way I was feeling.

**The End**

* * *

There is no reason why good cannot triumph as often as  
evil. The triumph of anything is a matter of organization. If  
there are such things as angels, I hope that they are  
organized along the lines of the Mafia.

_Kurt Vonnegut, The Sirens of Titan (1959)_

* * *

"Because the Night" was written by Patti Smith and Bruce Springsteen. I recommend reading _all_ the lyrics - under the circumstances, of course - plus a translation of "Deh vieni, non tardar" from **The Marriage of Figaro**.

"Piece of My Heart" was written by Bert Berns and Jerry Ragovoy_, _and recorded by Janis Joplin.

"The Wild Rover" is a traditional song sung all over the world and recorded by more artists than can be listed here.


End file.
